Amanda Scott (2 page)

“You must go, so you can look after Bessie.”

“But why cannot we both stay here with you?”

“Because you can’t, that’s all.”

Her tears spilled over, and hastily she wiped them away. Only babies cried.

The door opened, and both child and mother turned to see the tirewoman enter with Molly’s clothing. Sarah looked distraught.

“What is it?” Lady Gordon demanded. “What’s amiss?”

“Men came and took the bairn, my lady! They just walked into the nursery and snatched Elizabeth from her cradle.”

“Faith, what can he be thinking?”

Sarah had tears in her eyes, and seeing them, Molly began to tremble. Tears trickled down her cheeks again, unheeded now.

Sarah began deftly to dress her as she said sadly to Lady Gordon, “Why would the earl take one as small as wee Bess, my lady?”

“Because if anything should happen to Molly, Bessie will become the Maid of Dunsithe, and he means to maintain control of
the Maid’s fortune. Indeed,” she added thoughtfully, “I would not put it past Angus to create his own heiress if both of the
girls should die. If he were to keep them secluded and shift them about from one of his castles to another, who would know
the difference? ’Tis likely that as the years pass even I would fail to recognize the true Maid of Dunsithe.”

“Surely, that could never happen!”

“We cannot
let
it happen,” Lady Gordon said grimly. “I can do nothing about Bess if Angus has already taken her, but I will know Molly,
one way or another.” Reaching for the ring of keys on her belt, she removed one of the smaller ones and handed it to Sarah.
“Stir up the fire and heat this red-hot. I mean to see that no one will ever have cause to doubt the identity of the true
Maid of Dunsithe.”

“Mistress, ye’ll no hurt the wee lassie!”

“Hold your tongue, woman, and do as I bid you. I’ll go and hurry Nurse with their clothing, but I’ll be right back. Molly,”
she added sharply, “you stop your weeping if you don’t want to feel my hand when I return.”

Her tummy clenched, her breathing came too fast, and her hands felt prickly, but dashing an arm across her eyes to wipe her
tears away, the child watched silently as the tire-woman stirred up the fire.

Sarah put another log on and blew expertly on the embers to encourage more flames. When the fire was burning lustily, she
slipped the little key onto the end of the poker and held it right in the heart of the flames. By the time Lady Gordon returned,
the key was red-hot.

“Find me something to hold it with then bare her chest for me,” she ordered. “I’ll do the rest myself.”

Only then did Molly realize her exact intent. Screaming, she tried to free herself from Sarah’s grip. Though she was tiny,
it took both of them to hold her.

The Isle of Skye, Scotland, 1539

O
utside the little thatched cottage, wind blew and sleet-filled rain pelted down from a lightning-lashed black sky. The rain
pattered noisily against the straw thatch, and thunder rolled after each bolt of lightning, but the crofters inside the cottage
were used to such sounds. The single, crowded little room beneath the thatch was quiet except for the noise of the storm,
the rhythmic whir of a spinning wheel, the crackling and sizzling of the peat fire in the center of the hard-packed dirt floor,
and the voice of the long-bearded old man sitting in the place of honor.

“Years ago,” he said, “my father did tell me about a woman who were in a great hurry to ha’ her wool spun and made into cloth.”

Pausing to shoot a twinkling look at the woman seated at the spinning wheel, he drank thirstily from his mug. Then, cradling
the mug in his lap between two gnarled, liver-spotted hands, he went on in a more ominous tone. “One nicht,” he said, “against
advice, she made a wish for someone to help her, and next day six or seven fairy women in long green robes appeared at her
house, all chanting magical words that only they could understand. Taking up her wool-cards and spinning wheel, they set to
work, and by midday, the cloth were on the loom. When they finished, they asked her for more work, but she had nae more spinning
or weaving to do, and she began to wonder how she would get them out o’ her house.”

Seventeen-year-old Molly Gordon sat on her cloak on the dirt floor near a corner of the room, leaning contentedly against
the wall. Arms hugging her knees, she listened to the familiar tale, contented and filled with a rare sense of almost fitting
in, belonging, if only for a short time. She knew everyone in the room well, as well as the family that had raised her, and
she cared for them deeply.

The fragrance of burning peat wafted through the air, mixed with odors of food cooked earlier over the fire, the damp fur
of the dogs curled near their masters, and the wet wool smell of rain-damp clothing. Although everyone in the cottage had
heard the tale many times, each listened as intently as if it were the first time.

Everyone had brought food to share, and now that they had finished eating and darkness had begun to fall, the
ceilidh,
or folk gathering, had begun in earnest. While they ate, the conversation had been all gossip, as everyone shared any news
gleaned since the last gathering. Then men had heaped the peat higher, and as it flamed and then smoldered, the tales had
begun.

Nearly a score of people filled the room, adults and children, most of them sitting close together around the fire, albeit
leaving sufficient space between it and themselves for any wee folk who might care to join them and hear the stories. Girls
snuggled with family members or friends, and boys perched wherever they found space—three on the solid, square table pushed
against one wall and several more in a tangle beneath it.

Near Molly, a man twisted twigs of heather into rope to tie down his thatch while he listened. Another twined quicken root
into cords to tether his cows, and yet another plaited bent grass into a basket to hold meal.

At her spinning wheel, their hostess’s hands moved deftly through their familiar motions while her eldest daughter carded
wool beside her. Another teased the nap on a piece of finished cloth. Other women sewed, knitted, or tended small children.
Babies nursed or slept, and on a bench in the corner opposite Molly, an elderly man dozed, his snores occasionally punctuating
the fairy tale.

Molly had no task to occupy her hands, no knee to lean against, and no hand to hold. She sat apart from the others, but even
so, the evening warmed her heart and contented her restless soul.

The storyteller had reached the point in his story where the housewife complained to her neighbor about the exasperating fairy
women.

“ ‘Get ye inside,’ the neighbor said to her, ‘and tell them to go down to the sea and spin the sand into cloth. That’ll keep
’em busy and out o’ your house.’ And so it did,” the storyteller added. “For all we ken, they be there to this verra day.”

Chuckles greeted the end of the tale, just as they always did, and before they had died away, another man said matter-of-factly,
“Me father and grandfather knew a man wha’ were carried by the Host all the way from South Uist to Barra.”

“Aye, then, tell us aboot it, man,” murmured several members of the audience in a chorus.

After that, the old man told the tale of the
Dracae,
or water fairies, which was one of Molly’s favorites. Even the children were silent, eager to hear what happened to the woman
seized by the water fairies and taken to their subterranean depths to act as nurse to their brood of fairy children. Then
one small lad, who had been struggling to stay awake, fell asleep and toppled over just at the part where the now-escaping
captive acquired the ability to see the
Dracae
whenever they intermingled with men. The hoot of laughter from the lad’s brothers brought quick shushing noises from their
father and several of the other adults. Molly smiled.

As the water fairies’ tale reached its happy conclusion, she drew a deep breath of delight. It did not matter how many times
one heard the tales. Knowing how each would end only added to one’s enjoyment. She could even be grateful for the rain. No
one would expect her to walk back to Dunakin Castle until it stopped.

Despite the driving black storm from the Atlantic that raged with unabated fury around the flat-bottomed fishing coble, the
little boat’s oarsmen moved it with remarkable steadiness from the Kintail mainland toward the looming dense shape of the
Isle of Skye. Lightning flashed, revealing the boat’s six occupants, one hunched in the bow, one manning the tiller, and the
four others manning the long sweeps.

Thunder rolled and rumbled as driving sleet pelted them. The wind carried gusts so fierce and high that the coble’s square
lugsail was useless and was rolled up and strapped tightly to the beam of the mast.

The next flash of lightning revealed white sea foam billowing like snow around them. Then thunder crashed, and darkness enveloped
them again.

In the bow, his oiled woolen mantle gripped tightly around him and his head turned away from the wind, Sir Finlay Mackenzie,
Baron Kintail, enjoyed mixed feelings about the wintry weather. He was cold, and despite his heavy mantle, he was wet. This
was not the way he had imagined restoring stability to his life.

Earlier, horses had carried him and the five others to the village called Kyle from Eilean Donan Castle. From Kyle, they had
taken the coble into the teeth of the storm. Normally, the trip across the strait would have been quick, for the distance
was only half a mile. However, they headed almost due south, so the full fury of the Atlantic storm blasted them from the
right, and with the storm thus trying to force them off course, the journey was taking an eternity.

Fin glanced over his shoulder, ignoring the sting of sleet against his face as he searched the darkness ahead. Through the
black tempest, a tiny cluster of lights gleamed—their beacon, Dunakin Castle, perched high on its promontory. They were on
course despite the storm’s attempts to drive them back to Eilean Donan.

He hoped he was doing the right thing. To attempt his mission in such a hazardous way was perhaps foolhardy, especially with
so few men in his tail. He was a Mackenzie chieftain, after all, a baron with the power of the pit and the gallows, and therefore
a man of considerable authority. Perhaps he might have done better to await a calm day and transport horses to Skye along
with a full contingent of menat-arms to act as a proper chieftain’s tail.

However, by the time he could mount such an effort, every man on Skye would know he was coming, and not all were friendly
to the Mackenzies of Kintail.

Instead, he had decided that the mission he undertook was best done speedily and without warning, let alone any fanfare. He
would stir a hornet’s nest, even so, but that did not concern him. In truth, it pleased him that his greatest enemy, Donald
of Sleat—the very man who had brought such heavy responsibilities crashing down upon his shoulders—was about to lose one of
his most valued assets. The Maid of Dunsithe, greatest heiress in the land, was about to change guardians, and Donald of Sleat—known
in the western Highlands and Isles as Donald the Grim—knew nothing yet about the exchange.

The taking of the Maid would stand for little enough in the grand scheme of things, but it was something, and Fin Mackenzie
owed Donald the Grim much more. Only months before, in the depths of winter, Donald and others of his clan had murdered Fin’s
father in cold blood. Vengeance, in any form, was sweet.

It was hard to tell the difference between the seawater dousing him and the driving sleet, but as they drew nearer, the Isle
of Skye began to protect them from the worst of the storm. Now, compared to being on the open sea, they were sheltered, and
despite the roar of the wind, he could hear the creaking of the rowlocks and the lashing of water against the sides of the
boat. In lulls, he could even hear the labored breathing of his oarsmen. Being men who lived by the sea, they all were skilled
at rowing, but they were also experienced men-at-arms.

Lightning flashed again, and his gaze met that of Sir Patrick MacRae, his closest companion and best friend. In the Highlands,
the MacRaes were called the Mackenzies’ “shirt of mail,” and Patrick was a true MacRae. Much the same age as his master, he
had served Fin since childhood, even accompanying him to St. Andrews University, where they had enjoyed a good many adventures
together.

Patrick was grinning, as usual, and Fin automatically smiled back. But when thunder clapped and blackness swallowed them again,
his thoughts returned to the Maid of Dunsithe. Specifically, he wondered what he was going to do with her.

His greatest loves were his home and his people. James, fifth of that name and by grace of God High King of Scots, had granted
him the right to marry the Maid off wherever she could do him the most good. He could even marry her himself if he chose,
but he had no interest yet in marrying anyone.

Fin was more interested in the Maid’s fortune, because it could do much to protect his people and add to Eilean Donan’s fortifications.
There was a problem, though. Men everywhere, from the Borders to the Highlands, agreed that the Maid of Dunsithe was the greatest
heiress in all Scotland, which, under normal circumstances, would have meant that one of her earlier guardians—and she had
enjoyed several—would have married her off long since. The enticement for each, and the greatest deterrent, was her fortune.
It was said that no one had actually ever laid eyes on it, but that tale sounded apocryphal to him. If there was treasure,
he would find it, but even so, he was certain that over time men had exaggerated the size of it many times over. Still, whatever
it comprised, he would see it, touch it, and take control of it before he did anything else with her.