by Cathy MacRae
Each arrow bore a small wrap of linen soaked with a combination of saltpetre, sulphur and charcoal just below the broadhead. The resulting mixture was highly flammable and would continue to burn for more than a minute after being lit.
“A MacLean!”
The cry rose from the Sea Falcon as three arrows struck the massive square sail of the lead pirate ship and two others struck the men still rowing. The stricken ship took on water and dropped behind the larger, half its crew in chaos. Arbela released her first arrow at the second ship, hitting the sail. Alex’s next volley ensured the first ship would never make it to shore, its hull breached at the water line. Men dashed about the deck, attempting to lower their sail before it was consumed by flames. Kade’s next shot splashed wide of the larger vessel. Both men readied their weapons for another round.
The second ship, recognizing the fate of its companion, slowed pursuit and concentrated on lowering its sail, now aflame, into the sea. Another volley of arrows from the Sea Falcon, and many of the crew abandoned ship to avoid the deadly onslaught. The last round from both ballistae landed, shearing off most of the aft portion of the smaller ship, ruining their rudder, causing the vessel to flounder.
Arbela assessed the distance to Mull and realized they would likely drown in the frigid water before making shore.
“Will they all die, Da?”
Her father placed an arm about her waist. “Aye. I dinnae see how any will make land. ’Tis the price ye pay for a life of treachery and murder. Make no mistake, my kind-hearted lass, the pirates would have killed us all, save the women and children—though they would wish for death before it eventually came.”
She nodded once before slinging her bow over her shoulder and descending the ladder amidships, seeking a quiet place to pray for the dead…and the soon-to-be-dead.
* * *
The wind freshened, cold and damp on her face as they, at last, slid through the Sound of Mull to the strait that led to Loch Aline—and Arbela’s new home. Long shadows darkened the shores on both sides, raising the hairs on the back of Arbela’s neck as she searched for attackers hidden in the trees.
“Relax, lass,” her da chuckled, approaching to stand with her on the fore castle. We are on MacLean land. We shouldnae come to harm here. We’ve MacLeans on both sides of the Sound.”
“’Tis as likely the cold as it is suspicion prickling my neck,” Arbela grumbled. “But the strait is narrow and we’ve encountered too many pirates to become complacent.”
“Cease worrying yer pretty head,” Donal said, his condescending tone taking Arbela aback as if he’d struck her.
“I do not recall your minding what my pretty head worried about when we repelled the pirates only hours ago,” she replied, shock and anger coloring her brittle words.
“Och. Dinnae fash, lass. Yer days playing at being a warrior are over. ’Tis time ye settled into gentler arts.”
“Gentler arts?” she seethed. “Trade my sword for a needle so I might prick the finger of any attacker—as Ma would have done?”
Donal’s face clouded. “Ye are capable of defending yerself. As soon as I see to the affairs of the clan, I will see to yer husband. Dinnae mistake my leniency as permission.”
He averted his face, his gaze on the approaching shore where a looming pile of stones lit with torches atop the single wall around the tower house awaited. Arbela choked back her frustration, the path before her growing narrower by the moment.
Chapter 5
Caelen slammed his mug on the scarred table, sending ale sloshing over the sides.
“Damn him!” He tossed aside the missive he’d just read. It snapped once in the air then fluttered to the table boards, a corner soaking up the spilled ale. Rory rescued the parchment from further damage, blotting it before rolling it and re-tying the strip of leather that held it closed.
Rory hazarded a guess. “MacGillonay makes demands?”
Caelen slung a look of rage at his captain. “He insists on his rights as Bram’s grandfather.”
Rory’s eyebrows lifted. “No good can come of this.”
“If that bastard gets his hands on my son, I will never see him again.”
“Can he force the issue?”
“He could try force, mayhap petition the king. But I will never turn my son over to him.”
“How do ye propose to keep the lad away from him?”
Caelen surged to his feet, anger gripping him, his father by marriage’s words from the missive hovering before his eyes like a thrown gauntlet. Pacing the floor, he pounded out his fury on the flagstones.
“The bastard cared naught when we were under threat of mezils, but now that we are struggling to get back on our feet, he sends condolences. Does he offer foodstuffs or sheep?” He swung to face Rory.
“Nae! He offers to take one wee lad off my hands.” His right hand gripped the pommel of his sword. “I will rot in hell before I allow Bram to fall into MacGillonay’s hands!”
Rory nodded. “I dinnae blame ye, Laird. If his sons are any judge of the man, he raises sycophants, nae warriors.”
“Something I should have remembered before I married his daughter,” Caelen growled, resuming his pacing.
“Bram is a good lad,” Rory interjected.
Caelen inhaled a deep breath, releasing the anger building inside. His step slowed. “Aye.” A faint grin tugged the corner of his mouth. He released his grip on his sword. “I am grateful the sickness dinnae take him.”
“How fares his nurse?”
“She will recover. Though at her age, ’twas close. One of the serving lasses minds him until Ilene recovers.”
A giggle erupted behind Caelen and he whirled to peer in the shadows behind a wooden pillar. He shifted his gaze to a bit below hip level and spied a single brown eye in a pale face, and a familiar nose—the other eye hidden behind the post.
“I see ye, lad,” Caelen announced gruffly. “Where is yer nurse?”
Bram glanced over his shoulder. “I dinnae need a nurse, Da. I want to practice swords with ye.”
“Ye are but a bairn,” Caelen replied.
“He’s five summers,” Rory reminded him in a low voice.
“Da!” Bram whined over Rory’s comment, slithering sideways around the post.
Caelen clenched his jaw. He knew Rory and Bram were right. The lad was old enough to learn the basics with a wooden sword. But his heart bid him wait another year. He glanced away, torn with indecision.
“Can I have a pony, then?” Bram asked, popping out from behind the pillar, breathless as though he sensed a different answer than he’d been given for the past season.
“I will see about a pony when I have time,” Caelen said, hardly agreeing, but earning a look of profound disappointment from his son. His heart twisted at Bram’s discouragement as he raised morose eyes to his.
“I will be ’specially good, Da. I promise. I will eat my veg-ables and not hide from Kirsty.” He cast a worried glance over his shoulder as his nurse tacked across the hall, her small charge in her sights. “Even if she fusses more than Ilene.”
“Ye are a good lad, Bram,” Caelen assured him. “I will see about the pony soon.” He glanced about, uncomfortable dealing with the child. “’Tis near yer bedtime.”
Bram sent him a last pleading glance. “Will ye tell me a story?”
“Wee Bram!” Kirsty exclaimed as she sailed to a halt. “Ye are a naughty lad, stealing away and making me worry so.” She bobbed her head to Caelen. “’Tis sorry I am, Laird, that the lad has bothered ye.”
Caelen saw his son’s stricken look and sought to reassure him. “The lad is nae bother. But I dinnae like that ye are fashed over him.”
Guilt flooded Bram’s face and his shoulders drooped. Without another word, he turned beneath Kirsty’s guiding hand and shuffled from the hall.
“I dinnae know how to care for him,” Caelen sighed.
Rory canted his head. “Carve the lad a wee sword. Find him a pony. Tell him a st
ory. ’Tis nae difficult. The lad craves a kind word from ye.”
“I dinnae know how to be a da,” Caelen replied bitterly, recalling his own father. “If I follow my da’s lead, I will surely estrange the lad. Yet I dinnae wish to coddle him.” The dilemma tore at him, leaving him uncertain, prodding him to take the easier route and leave the child in the care of his nurse.
“’Tis true yer da was no shining example of fatherhood,” Rory agreed. “But yer ma was a kind woman.”
“I only remember the bitter arguments between them on how to raise me.”
Rory shrugged. “The lad is growing fast. Now that he is past the mezils—”
“Ye dinnae understand,” Caelen interrupted. “He almost died. I couldnae face such anguish again.”
“So, rather than risk injury, ye protect him at all costs?”
“He is still a bairn,” Caelen argued stubbornly.
Rory’s challenge rose. “Then tell him a bedtime tale.”
* * *
Bram’s hair, damp from his bath, gleamed in the firelight. He held his arms in the air, waiting for Kirsty to drop his sleep tunic over his head. Spying Caelen, he leapt from his spot near the hearth and charged across the room.
Caelen caught his son’s wiry body. “Have a care, lad,” he admonished, instantly regretting the commanding tone of his voice as Bram’s step faltered. He attempted to gentle his voice. “Let Kirsty finish dressing ye so ye dinnae catch a chill.”
Bram reluctantly retreated to the hearth, casting repeated glances back as if to reassure himself his da remained.
Caelen caught Kirsty’s eye. “I came to see to the lad’s bedtime,” he said. Bram jumped up and down, hindering Kirsty’s attempts to dress him. “I have a few free moments this eve.”
Despite his implied warning this was a one-time offering, Bram continued to surge up and down, managing to aim his arms and head through the proper openings. Kirsty tied a haphazard bow at the drawstring neck and threw her hands into the air.
“He’s all yers, Laird. Though I wish ye luck getting him to sleep.” She rose to her feet. “Were I a few years older, I’d never keep up with the lad. Ilene will have her hands full when she resumes her duties.”
“Mayhap Ilene should be relieved of her burden,” Caelen answered, glancing pointedly in Kirsty’s direction. She sent him a look of alarm.
“I’ve enough work to do, thank ye just the same. Chasing after this lad will age me afore my time.” She stepped to the doorway, giving Bram a meaningful look. “Be a good lad. Yer da has little time to deal with foolishness.”
With an abbreviated bob, she took her leave.
Bram was silent for all of one long breath before he exploded in a flurry of movement. Eyes dancing with excitement, he grabbed Caelen’s hand and dragged him across the room. “Tell me a story!” he demanded as he leapt onto his small bed. The mattress sagged beneath the onslaught and Bram shrieked as he bounced.
“Settle,” Caelen commanded, his bark dissolving Bram’s glee. The lad scrambled beneath the blankets.
“Will ye tell me a story?” he wheedled softly.
Caelen frowned. “I’ve told ye a tale before.”
“I like the story of St. George,” Bram replied. “Do ye know another?”
Caelen thought hard. In the years of Bram’s short life, he’d told him a bedtime story perhaps a dozen times. It was always St. George and the dragon—the only one he knew.
“Nae. I dinnae know another,” he admitted.
“I dinnae mind,” Bram avowed. “I want to hear about the dragon!”
Buoyed by his son’s eager acceptance, Caelen settled onto the chair next to the bed and began the tale.
“St. George traveled many months ’til he reached a far-off country. He encountered a hermit who told him the sad tale of a dragon who lived nearby, poisoning the water if he dinnae receive tribute from the people.”
“What’s a tribute, Da?”
“I’ve told ye. A tribute is a payment for a debt.”
“What debt?”
“The dragon accepted payment and in return dinnae poison the water,” Caelen replied. Bram frowned but didn’t pursue his question.
Caelen resumed the tale. “Every day the people sent a beautiful maiden to the dragon. Only the king’s daughter remained, and the king was very dismayed.”
“’Cause the dragon was going to eat her?” Bram’s question hovered between relishing the power of dragons and the sinister plot of eating people.
“Aye. But St. George dinnae like this, and vowed to slay the dragon. He rode to the lake where the dragon lived and saw the princess waiting beneath a tree.”
“Did she look like a faerie princess, Da?”
“Who tells ye tales of faerie princesses?”
Bram shrugged.
Caelen resolved to give his story a more manly bent. “The dragon burst from its cave, roaring louder than thunder. Its head was larger than St. George’s horse, and its tail was longer than the stride of five horses.”
Bram’s eyes widened appreciatively.
“Its scales were harder than stone, and St. George’s spear splintered when he struck the dragon. Leaping from his horse, he rushed the dragon and pierced it with his sword beneath its wing where there were no scales, and the beast fell dead at his feet.”
Bram stared at his da. “He was a good fighter, wasn’t he? Will I be a good fighter someday, Da?”
Caelen considered the lad. He was only a bairn. Caelen knew other lads his age already fought mock battles with wooden swords. But he could not bring himself to admit the lad was growing up. Was it because he wished him to remain young and innocent? Or because he had little time for a lad at his heels?
Shamed by the realization he had no idea how to deal with the lad and his unending curiosity, he rose abruptly, suddenly angry at his lack of skills where his son was concerned.
“Ye will be a fine warrior,” he replied gruffly. “Get to sleep.” He strode to the door, then paused. “Even mighty warriors need sleep.”
But closing the door to his son’s chamber did not close the door on his dilemma.
Caelen made his way to the hall and tucked a chair by the hearth. With so many still recovering from the illness that ravaged the land, he had the place to himself. The fire in the great hearth was banked for the night, though the coals offered enough heat to keep the spot cozy. Edgy, he considered seeing if Cook had left any food laying out for a wee snack, but realized ’twas not hunger that drove his restless spirit.
What the devil did a man do with a wee son? He’d been told to sire one, not how to raise him once he arrived. If the boy were a bit older, the problem would mostly solve itself by turning him over to Rory and the other men who trained the lads. At five, Bram was still part bairn, not ready for the rigorous tussling among older lads. And with the fiendish MacGillonay nipping at their heels, the urge to lock the boy away rose.
Caelen scrubbed his face. If nothing else, he should learn a new bedtime story. Perhaps auld James knew a few. As one of the few elders who’d survived the cursed mezils, he’d be a good choice to glean a story from. A man with as many grandbairns as he surely knew a good bedtime tale or two.
He drew a hand across his close-shorn head. With as much work needing to be done, finding time to listen to an auld man spin yarns seemed frivolous. Deep in thought, Caelen didn’t notice Alesta until she placed a tankard of ale on the table at his elbow.
“M’laird, ye seem to be lost in thought this eve. Is there aught I can do to ease yer mind?”
Alesta slowly unlaced her bodice, revealing her ample breasts. The white mounds bulged over the top of her undergown as she squeezed them together, drawing his interest. Caelen felt the first stirrings of his manhood. At least something he could depend on. Alesta lifted her skirts, revealing her woman’s flesh and his interest caught fire.
The low glimmer of the coals did nothing to enhance her fading beauty, but Caelen’s dead wife had been a beautiful bride.
Alesta’s charm was the passion she possessed, something significantly more appealing than lovely Ruthie’s ice-bound comportment.
“Ye understand this means naught?” The last thing he needed was a serving woman using her body to elevate her position in the clan.
“Aye, M’laird. I’ve no schemes. Ye look like a man who could use a hard rutting and I’m rather fond of what ye keep beneath yer tunic. Mayhap we will both sleep better after,” she added with a sad smile.
Alesta’s husband, cold in the ground nigh on three years, had been a lusty man—the two well paired. Caelen wondered why his dead wife couldn’t have been more like Alesta.
He took Alesta’s hand and allowed her to lead him toward her small cottage. Even in the lingering twilight, the desperate state of the holding with its sagging buildings and curtain wall in disrepair was evident, and his inability to set things to right burned in his gut. With little funds to pay for improvements and fewer men to do the work, Caelen didn’t know how he could see to the restorations needed. He’d spent almost every waking moment cudgeling his brain for ways to fix the situation he was in—that they all were in.
For tonight, however, he’d lose himself in Alesta’s body and let his troubles wait until the morrow.
Chapter 6
Arbela opened the shutters to the single narrow window in her room, allowing the stale, smoky air to escape. Fresh air whipped inside on the heels of a gust of wind and chill bumps leapt to immediate attention on her arms. She closed the panels with a decisive click. Pulling a heavy velvet tapestry over the window darkened the room, but blocked the damp, cold air of late March.
Crossing the room to the fireplace, she rubbed her arms, warming her chilled skin. Her feet sank into the plush comfort of a rug that spanned much of the width of the room. Candlelight reflected off a myriad of polished metal discs hung about the room to magnify their glow. Copper colored circles of light and faint echoing shadows danced on the walls, and a curtain of strung glass beads tinkled as she pushed past.