On a Highland Shore (36 page)

Rignor
.

She fought the bile rising in her throat and took a deep breath to steady herself. Her brother was tied, hand and foot, strung to the pony by a long leather rope, his eyes covered by a band of material, his mouth as well. But there was no mistaking him: that was Rignor’s long black hair that streamed behind him, Rignor’s kilt that had slid up his thigh. He was bleeding from many wounds, battered from the ride. Was it possible that they had towed him all the way from Somerstrath? He did not move; she breathed a prayer for him.

“Have ye gone mad?” She started toward Rignor, but one of the riders put a hand out to stop her, and the man who had pulled Rignor came to stand before her. “What have ye done?” she asked again, looking into his grim face.

“Justice,” he said, gesturing at Rignor. “He killed my son.”

“But of course he dinna,” she said.

“He killed my son,” the man said again. “And he might have killed all of us.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Rufus demanded. “Is he alive? Move away and let us tend to him.”

The first rider bent now to yank the cloth off Rignor’s eyes. “Still not dead. Bastard’s hardier than I would have thought.”

“Why did ye do this?” Margaret shrieked. “Explain this to me!”

The third rider dismounted now and met her gaze—the man who had accompanied her from Somerstrath, who had seen the dragonships with her, who had told her of the runner’s visit, of the strange visitor to Somerstrath. A terrible certainty filled her mind, and she knew, before they could say it, what they would tell her.

“He told the Norsemen where to find us,” the first rider said.

The second rider looked from Rufus to Margaret. “He betrayed us all. He told them about Inverstrath, about the harbor and how many people would be here.” He met Margaret’s gaze. “And who would be here. And in exchange he was allowed to stay alive and keep Somerstrath.”

“We had a man come, saying he was a runner from the Sinclairs, but he acted strangely, and he’d only talk to Rignor,” the first man said. “And this morning he came again, asking for news of Inverstrath and who had led the defense.”

“Yer brother has been drinking himself into a stupor every night,” the third man said. “Sometimes he would talk, saying daft things. Mostly we stopped listening. But some of it started to make sense when the news of the attack here came. And when the runner came back, we kent what Rignor had done….”

“So we asked him and it all came out,” the second man said. “He traded yer lives for his own, all of us for Somerstrath.”

“What did ye do to him?” Margaret whispered.

“What needed to be done. He willna live. I’m sorry.” She looked at each man in turn as the others echoed his words. There was no sorrow, no remorse, in their eyes, only a fierce anger, reflected in the faces of the Inverstrath people. She bent over Rignor, who was bloody and battered and broken. “How did it come to this?” she whispered to him, but there was no answer.

Rignor died at midday without ever regaining consciousness. He had no last words, no defense, no argument against what he’d been accused of. Margaret and Nell were by his side when he left them with a soft sigh so quiet that they’d almost missed it, as though Rignor’s soul was glad to be rid of his body, as though it had another place to be. He did not see Margaret’s tears fall onto his sleeve nor hear Nell’s sobs.

There would be no reconciliation, no peace made between them, now or ever. Margaret had no words left. Her emotions tumbled, from regret to sadness to outrage at what had been done to her brother. To frustration because she would never know the truth. But she feared that she did already know the truth, that she’d seen it in his eyes that last day at Somerstrath. There was only one thing she knew for certain; she’d lost her brother forever.

Rignor was buried that afternoon, with many in attendance but only Margaret and Nell to mourn him. Dagmar was silent and pale and threw sidelong glances at Margaret, as though expecting to be confronted. But Margaret had nothing to say to her, knowing that nothing would change Dagmar. And Dagmar proved her right—a few hours later her laughter rang through the hall.

And a few hours after that the Norsemen came.

Margaret was alone, sitting on the berm above the beach, staring at the water, her hands in her lap, her body so weary she could not find the strength to return to the fortress and find her bed. The sea was calm, the wind brisk. No clouds marred the pristine sky. On the beach Rufus’s men were repairing a mast; the fishermen had left hours before. Children ran along the shore, dancing in the waves, and she closed her eyes and bent her head to her knees, trying not to think.

The shouts roused her somewhat, the piercing screams made her look up, but still she did not move until Rufus shook her roughly. “Margaret! Sails! Norsemen!”

Everyone around was shouting and running. Rufus grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him toward the fortress, releasing her when they both turned at the shouts behind them. The men who had been watching the sea from the northern headland were racing toward them now, mouths gaping open in terror.

“Dragonships! Norsemen! Run!”

“They’re here!”

The cries were all around her. She threw a look over her shoulder and froze, saying a prayer. There, filling the harbor, which had been quiet only moments ago, were huge ships, their rounded prows topped by dragons and spirals and fierce birds, their railing lined with shields and their hulls full of armed men, who roared as they neared shore. Six, she counted. Seven. Eight. She began to run again, her heart thudding. At the fortress men were calling for the gates to be closed, and women screamed for their children.

Tiernan rushed to her side, pushing her within the walls. “Get inside!”

“Where’s Nell?” she cried. “Have ye seen her?”

“No! Get inside, Margaret!”

“We’ll be trapped there. We have to run for the forest.”

“There’s no time! They’re already landing! Look!”

She followed his gaze to the beach, where the ships were sliding onto the shore, Norsemen leaping from them and running up from the beach, hundreds of them, axes and swords raised high. They shook the very ground, their battle cries like something from the Otherworld. The gates slammed shut, and Rufus’s men scrambled onto the battlements. Tiernan drew his sword.

She clutched at his arm. “Come with me! Rufus, come, all of ye—there are too many of them! We canna defeat them!”

Tiernan shook his head, his jaw tight. “We defeated them before.”

“There are too many this time!”
And Gannon’s not here.

“Find Nell and escape!” he shouted, and joined Rufus at the gate.

She rushed into the hall, shouting her sister’s name. The hall was filled with women screaming and crying, men shouting, rushing about, some trying to escape, some wielding weapons, joining those in the courtyard.

“The garden!” Dagmar shouted. “We’ll get out through the garden!”

“Nell!” Margaret cried. “Have ye seen Nell?”

Dagmar shook her head and ran toward the back of the hall, followed by the panicked people. The corridor to the kitchens quickly clogged. Margaret looked up the stairs, then took the steps two at a time, hearing the screams behind her.

“They’re in the village already!”

There was chaos below as people poured back into the hall, but Margaret kept climbing. She ran down the hallway and slammed open the door to their room. It was empty, the bed tidily made, the emptiness of the room mocking her. She raced back to the hallway, calling Nell’s name. Downstairs the screams were more shrill, and she could hear a loud battering, then more screams, some cries cut off far too quickly. Dear God, had they broken through already?
Tiernan. Rufus. Dear God, no
. She ran along the corridor calling for Nell, was sprinting toward the stairs when she heard the thundering sound of boots there.

She drew her short sword and turned to face her death.

N
ell was in the village with the Somerstrath people when she heard the shouts. “What is it?” she asked, leaving her spot on the bench, moving closer to the door. She received no answer, but a moment later saw the streams of people running across the meadow, pouring from the pathway that led to Rufus’s fortress.

“What happened?” Nell asked.

The first man to reach them stopped, gasping. “Norsemen! Run!”

“Norsemen! Vikings!” called a woman who did not stop. “Hundreds!”

“Margaret! Have ye seen Margaret?” Nell started toward the fortress, but one of the Somerstrath women grabbed her arm.

“She’ll have gotten out!”

“She’ll find us!” the others agreed, pulling her toward the trees.

“I saw her,” a man said, running into the trees. “She’s with us!”

“Where?” Nell cried.

The man pointed into the forest above them, to the mountains. Nell ran with them then, around the inland loch and onto the slopes of the mountain, stopping on the ledges that overlooked the glen below, affording a clear, if distant view of Inverstrath. The first to arrive were staring and pointing to the fortress, some sobbing. She did not turn, but searched though the crowd for her sister. Margaret was not there. Nor did she arrive, even with the last of the stragglers.

Nell told herself that Margaret must have escaped, that she’d simply run in a different direction, perhaps south, to the glen that Gannon had so admired. Margaret could run swiftly; she’d been outside the walls and would not have been trapped in the hall. Surely she was safe, with Tiernan and Rufus and all those—far too many—who had not joined them here. Surely they were all safe.

Nell, her heart in her throat, turned to look below. It was as she’d feared. Inverstrath was burning, the flames visible even from here, leaping from the wooden structure into the sky. In the harbor the dragonships were lined on the shore like hungry beasts, waiting to be filled. Men moved toward them, lumbering, but it was too far away for her to see what it was they carried.

“Dear God protect them!” one woman cried, and the others repeated her words, many praying aloud.

Nell joined them, sinking to the ground, fearing that her prayers might already be too late.
Keep them safe, Lord, Margaret and Tiernan and Rufus and all the others. I could not bear to lose Margaret, too. Please keep Margaret alive, Lord. Keep her safe, and I’ll never ask for anything again as long as I live. And Tiernan. And Rufus and all of them
.

The third camp, on the northern shore of Skye, was neither empty nor unguarded. Drason shot Gannon a look of triumph as they rounded the headland. Dogs, barking furiously, ran toward the harbor as they neared, men not far behind, drawing weapons and shouting. There were two ships on the shore, but neither was a dragonship.

“If Davey and the others are here,” Drason said, “they’ll be together in a hut near the back of the camp. Nor doesn’t like to be troubled by captives, and he dislikes hearing small boys weeping. We’ll have to fight our way through.”

“Ye’ll stay here.”

Drason gave him a sidelong glance, then nodded, as though he had some say in this. “You will remember our agreement?”

“I dinna think yer uncle is here.”

“If he is, you will honor our agreement?”

“I dinna promise ye, lad. If we find Davey, we’ll talk about it,” Gannon said and slammed his helmet on his head as they landed.

There were a few fierce moments, but the Norsemen on the beach were quickly slain, as were the others who came running from the huts and tents. Not many men, and not Nor’s best men, it became clear when Gannon saw some running away inland. Gannon moved cautiously through the village. It was smaller than the first, not as well placed as the second, but there were cattle here, and pigs, agitated, their noise masking all others. He smashed open doors to find the huts empty, and slashed through canvas to find abandoned tents. The animals had quieted, the silence that followed reminding him of creeping through Somerstrath. But this was not a village of the dead. They found no bodies. And no one to oppose them. Nor, it seemed, had his attention elsewhere.

In the back of the encampment, near the latrines and the pigsties, they found a small hut, just as Drason had said. It was Gannon who opened the door, sword in hand, Gannon who removed his helmet and stared back at the dozen small boys who shrank from him, Gannon who sheathed his sword and fought the wave of rage he felt upon seeing their misery and fear.

In the kindest tone he could muster, he said, “Ye’re safe, lads.”

They stared at him, then exchanged looks, but none spoke.

“Is Davey MacDonald among ye?” Gannon asked.

One of the boys rose slowly, his dark hair and eyes giving Gannon hope.

“He was,” the boy said, “but they took him away.”

“Where? Where did they take him?” At the fear in their eyes, Gannon softened his tone. “I am Gannon MacMagnus, come from Inverstrath. Margaret sent me for ye. Come, laddies, let’s get ye out of here.”

They quickly freed the boys from their bonds, releasing them into the sunshine, watching with grim pleasure as four of them were embraced with cries of joy by the Somerstrath men. Their story came out slowly at first, then without pause, their words tumbling over each other as the Somerstrath boys told of being loaded onto Nor’s ships and shifted from camp to camp, told nothing about what their fate was to be. The other boys, from other villages, talked then, telling almost the same tale. Gannon interrupted before the Somerstrath boys could ask about their families, reminding his men that Nor could arrive at any moment.

They left quickly then, setting fire to the huts, slashing the tents until they were unusable, letting the boys help destroy their own prison. They loaded the pigs and cattle on the ship amid much laughter about it, and set sail for Inverstrath. Drason, waiting on
Gannon’s Lady
, went pale when he was told Davey was not among the captives. Gannon gave him a long, measuring look, but said nothing to him. He still was not sure about Drason Anderson.

Nor was pleased. There had been no real defense. A handful of men on the beach, a score more on the rise, still more at the fortress itself, but nothing six hundred men could not easily overcome. They could see the villagers running for the forest as they neared, joined by some of the men who were obviously meant to defend the place. He sent some of his men to surround the fortress, others to chase those who thought to escape, but was content to let some live. It would not hurt for news of his revenge to reach the rest of Scotland. It might make them reach deeper in their pockets to prevent it from happening again.

His men battered easily through the gates with their axes, then struck down everyone in the courtyard, where a man, presumably the laird, led a small group of men against them. It took only a few moments to end that, a few more to beat down the door to the hall. He stood in the sunlight for a moment, triumphant, then gestured them forward. His men poured inside.

In a room, just off the hall itself, they found some of the men he’d left behind, bound and filthy. Stinking, but alive. He’d forgotten that he’d left so many behind. They struggled to their feet, hope lighting their eyes. He stood in the doorway, grinning while they cheered him.

“Did you think I would leave you behind?”

Those in the hall were mostly women, and mostly forgettable. There was one, though, who watched him with fear, as the others did, but with something more in her gaze, something that he recognized. He let his men push her into a corner with the other women, but this one would bear further investigation. The kitchens and gardens were littered with dead, none of them his. He stepped over the bodies with distaste, then grabbed a handful of sliced grouse from a table, eating as he continued his survey.

He could hear the noise from above and climbed the stairs, licking his fingers and wiping them on his thigh. Probably women, he thought, hearing the guttural sounds. His men had their orders, had been thoroughly instructed, but he was not sure they could be trusted not to sample the women themselves. He turned the corner into the hallway; not twenty feet away his men had a woman. She was, as yet, untouched, and that pleased him.

“Sir,” one called. “We found one.”

He stepped closer, and his men made room for him. The woman was pressed against the far wall, holding her pitiful weapon before her, as though a small sword would protect her against axes and men who were twice as big.

“You said not to kill any women.”

“Yes,” he said. “Well done. This one is a prize.”

And she was, a lovely creature, tall and dark-haired. She watched him with obvious fear, but, determination flickered in her eyes, too, the kind he’d seen too many times in these Scottish women.

He walked up to her, then reached to touch the torque she wore around her neck. An Irish torque. He smiled as she flinched away and reached for her again.

She flashed the sword at him, but he’d expected that and parried with a move of his own. She tried again. With a growl, he shoved her against the wall, holding the hand that gripped the sword high above her head, squeezing tighter and still tighter until at last, with a whimper, she dropped the blade. It clattered against the wood, the only other sound her ragged breathing. He leaned closer.

“I am looking for Gannon’s woman.”

She turned her head to the side. He felt her terror, felt her trembling against him. He stepped back from her, appraising her. Full breasts, trim waist, long legs, a pleasing face, and a man’s golden torque at her neck. If she were not Gannon’s woman, he would be surprised. This was a woman a man would fight for, might die for. A woman a man came back for.

And if she were not Gannon’s woman? He’d find other uses for her. She’d bring a tidy sum on the slave market, more if she were a virgin, or could be sold as one. He’d look into that later; some tasks were his own. He turned to his men.

“Bring her down with the others.”

Margaret tried to control her trembling as the Norsemen led her below. There were bodies at the foot of the stairs, more scattered around the hall, all of them Rufus’s men, a woman here or there among them. The Vikings were rummaging through the clothing of the dead, pulling rings off fingers, killing any man who still moved. Margaret was shoved toward the cowering group of women who huddled near the wall. Dagmar was among them, but not Nell.

“Have ye seen Nell? Did anyone see Nell?”

The women shook their heads. “Many are missing,” one said.

They waited then, as the Norse prisoners were released and came into the hall, as Rufus’s wine and ale were opened and passed around, and the men drank heavily. Margaret closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. She knew what was next, why they had been spared. Images from Somerstrath came to her, and she forced herself to be calm. If she were to die today, so be it. She would face it with all the courage she could summon.

Nor Thorkelson. It must be him. He’d been too assured, too amused to be anyone but Nor. He looked like a leader, moved like a man accustomed to being obeyed. He was tall, broad-shouldered. Strong. Arrogant. He was a handsome man, his long blond hair braided back from his face, revealing a thick neck, strong jaw, and wide mouth. His eyes were a pale blue, his lashes long and blond. Women would seek him out, that she knew, but only if they did not see the coldness in that gaze, nor see the calculations that were obvious as he looked around him. This was a man who weighed everything by how it affected him.

She’d been terrified when he’d approached her, knowing she could not defeat him, knowing what he’d done elsewhere. He’d enjoyed her fear, she’d seen that, too, before his gaze had drifted lower. He’d studied her body, as though she were a horse on the auction block. And he was seeking Gannon’s woman, which meant that his spies had been thorough. Or that Rignor had told them.

There might have been other spies than the monk, she realized now. Who had kept track of all who visited since the raid on Somerstrath? Any one of the runners coming with news could have been a spy. Certainly everyone who had visited had been told of the raid, and later of their success against the Norseman, and in great detail. They’d been too trusting, too open.

Nell
.

Nor walked quickly through the hall, giving orders, slapping shoulders, apparently pleased. He crossed to where the women were and sat at one of the tables, relaxed amidst all the death. Most of the women looked away or kept their eyes downcast. Only Margaret and Dagmar watched him.

“I’m looking for Gannon’s woman,” he said in accented Gaelic.

The women were silent.

Nor’s gaze touched Margaret’s, lingered, then passed on to another. “I will make this simple, then. I’ll kill you, one after another, right here, right now, until I’m told which one she is.”

Margaret looked into his eyes. And believed him. She stepped forward.

“I am Gannon’s woman.”

The other women watched in horror, some stifling cries behind their hands. Nor looked at her from head to foot, then nodded. “As I thought.”