Highland Magic (3 page)

Branwenn was surprised to find his mount
already saddled and ready to go. How had she missed seeing the
animal earlier? She shrugged. No doubt, her mind had been much more
occupied with not getting caught at the time.

After Reys mounted his steed, ‘twas not as
difficult as Branwenn had anticipated for them to depart the
holding. The journey to the coast took two hours.

The wharf was dark and dank. More abandoned
than Branwenn had been expecting, even at this dim hour of the
morn.

“Stay upon your horse,” Reys cautioned as he
handed her the reigns of his own mount, “and do not move more than
a pace or two from this spot until I return, for I shall not be
long. I must negotiate your safe passage with the captain of this
vessel.”

“Aye,” Branwenn replied with a nod of her
head. After her brother had been gone a few minutes and she was
convinced that she’d not be accosted by any wayward, drunken
seamen, she relaxed a bit and took stock of her surroundings. The
wharf had the smell of the sea—no surprise. But there was the smell
of something else as well. ‘Twas as if the sea creatures had
crawled to the shore to die, for the smell was caustic, harshly
bitter, the air filled with the smell of rot.

In another moment, Reys came into view once
more. His expression was somber as he briskly walked up beside her
mount. “I’ve secured passage for you on the Irish ship, the
Maighdean mhara mhear
.” He took hold of Branwenn’s hand. “I
wish there were another way, but there is none.”

“I care not—”

“Branwenn, heed me well. These are men of the
cloth—monks from Strangford Lough on the coast of Ulster. They are
just returning from Cumberland with more stone and iron ore for the
abbey they are building. If all goes as planned, you shall arrive
there in a matter of days. I have claimed corody for you as a
kinsman of Prince Llywelyn, so you may stay with them until all is
settled. I will come for you then, so do not stray from that place
until that time. ‘Twill not be long, I vow it.”

Branwenn’s heart pounded in her chest. Tho’
her hand trembled with fear, she managed to slip it from her
brother’s embrace. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her
spine, and showing more courage than she felt, she said, “Worry
not, I shall do as you say. For, where else could I go without fear
of discovery? I do not dare go back to the Maclean holding, as I
wish no harm to come to any there—nor do I wish for them to ever
discover that I was almost wed to such a man as Gaiallard de
Montfort.”

“We must make haste, then, for the barge will
sail in but a quarter-hour’s time. These mariner monks use naught
but the sun’s bright beam during the day and the star’s light that
twinkles in the northern sky at night to guide them. But fear not,
they’ve assured me they’ve made this same journey many times since
their patroness, the wife of John de Courcy of Ulster, founded
their abbey but a few years past.”

Reys took the reigns of his and Branwenn’s
mounts and led them to the ship’s loading plank. After helping her
to dismount, he placed the scroll in her hand and settled his own
long-fingered hand over hers. “Use this document as your
introduction to the abbot. The letter explains that you are my
brother and that you are also the cousin of Prince Llywelyn.

“But—”

Reys lightly covered her mouth with his
fingertips. “Nay, my little dove, it cannot be helped. You must
continue in your disguise until I come for you, else you will not
be allowed to remain at the abbey—corody, or nay. And do not take
those clothes from your frame at any time during the voyage, not
even to bathe, for ‘twould not do for these men of the cloth to
discover that a member of the fairer sex is on board their
vessel.”

With a stiff nod of the head, Branwenn turned
and gazed at the huge sailing vessel she was about to embark upon.
The ship was long, with at least 25 to 30 oars on each side and a
long mast that hung suspended over the entire length of the
deck.

“There is more I would give you before you
are gone,” Reys said, turning and rummaging inside the leather
satchel he had attached to his saddle. A moment later, he was
lifting her hand, palm up, and placing a small leather purse upon
it.

Branwenn’s brows drew together. “What is
this?”

“There are silver coins inside—enough to
purchase several more moons of shelter and food for you than what I
have arranged already with the monks.”

“But, you said you would return for me
soon....”

“Be at ease, little one. I shall take not one
moment longer than I must, but I cannot allow you to travel so
far—and with strangers, tho’ men of the cloth they be—without
some
bit of coin, just in case. Do you see?”

With a long, forlorn sigh and a shrug of her
shoulders, she sadly nodded her head. “Aye. I do see. My debt to
you is growing greater and greater.”

“Nay, you owe me naught. I beg you, trouble
yourself no more on that score.” Reys took hold of the hand she
held the purse in. “Look inside,” he coaxed, loosening the string
that held the neck of the pouch closed. “For you will find
something of our mother’s which I wish for you to keep. I planned
to give this to you on the morrow, as a gift to celebrate your
wedding, but, I confess, I am much more pleased to give it to you
now as a token of my great affection for you as my sister.”

Still holding the scroll, Branwenn
managed—rather awkwardly—to place two fingers inside to find the
object he spoke of. She discovered it immediately and drew the
cold, circular band of gold metal and amethyst gemstone out of the
pouch.

“’Twas our mother’s betrothal ring. The same
ring, in fact, that Bao gave the priest at the kirk he had our
mother buried in. The ring was left with the priest as a means to
prove that ‘twas truly her grave, should her family come searching
for her there.”

Branwenn’s hand began to shake with more
violence and her eyes filled with tears. “This was my mother’s?”
she asked brokenly. ‘Twas lovely. The small, polished, oval stone
was set high on the narrow gold band.

Reys took the ring and settled it on her
finger before Branwenn’s next thought had time to form. “There now,
I knew you were a near twin to her, but now I have proof. See how
nicely it fits you?”

“Aye,” she replied wonderingly, “I thought it
surely too small for my hand.” She looked up, into her brother’s
eyes and said, “I thank you for this memento of my mother.”

Reys gave her a brief nod. “We have tarried
long enough, I trow,” he said abruptly. “Come,” he continued in a
softer tone, “we must find the captain and get you settled in the
space he’s allowed you in the hold before the ship sails.” And with
a bit of gentle pressure to the base of Branwenn’s spine, he
prodded her to begin ascending the rough, wooden plank of the
ship.

* * *

The vessel had been at sea for no more than
three days and three nights when brigands, pirates of the sea,
rammed into the side of their ship sometime around the chimes at
midnight, bombarding it with large stones flung from a mangonel,
and sending missile upon missile of fire-tipped spears and arrows
onto the deck, killing many of the men who were unfortunate enough
to be on duty at the time.

“GET YOU DOWN BELOW, LAD!” The grey-robed
captain pushed Branwenn toward the stair leading into the hold.
“‘Tis the safest place for you. Fear not, we will rout these
robbers in little time.”

Branwenn did as she was told, fearing she’d
be more cumbrance than aid were she to stay above and attempt to
fight.

Despite the captain’s assurance, she was
still not free of doubt that all might be lost. And if it were not
for the tempest of severe proportions that howled down upon them
with a deafening force mere moments after she’d settled in her snug
nook below deck, making the pirates’ fiery offense upon them moot,
Branwenn was certain that she and all who were still alive aboard
the vessel would have been doomed to a watery grave at the hands of
the greedy robbers.

The sounds of attack now silenced, Branwenn
went directly against the captain’s orders and, after slinging the
long strap of her satchel, which held her dearest possessions,
around her neck and over her shoulder, went topside.

The brigands’ much smaller vessel slipped
away into the darkness on thievish feet and in moments, the monks’
galley was once more alone on the sea. Unfortunately, it had
sustained quite a bit of damage in its hull and the vessel began to
take on water. In minutes, it lurched to its side, sending anything
that was not nailed down slamming against the railing. Branwenn had
barely stepped two paces away from the stair leading below deck
when she was sent flying against the railing herself. She only had
time to grab hold of a stray plank of wood before she was swept off
the ship and into the dark, cold, unforgiving depths of the frigid,
briny water.

Tho’ the wood acted as a buoy in the
violently tossing sea, she was still buried beneath the crashing
waves, forced down, down, down, into the unrelenting dark chasm.
She held tight to her anchor in the storm, and, after long,
terrifying seconds, she was finally thrust back up, like some
volcanic spew from an island mound, until she at last broke free of
the surface of the abyss and was once more able to draw breath into
her burning lungs. When her mind and vision cleared, she realized
the tide had propelled her much too far from the vessel to be seen
or heard.

Holding tight to her plank of wood, she
allowed herself to drift, fearing that if she fought the tide,
she’d only end up at the bottom of the sea. For the next few hours,
she could do no more than wait. Wait for the light of dawn and keep
her mind occupied with any thoughts other than the terrifying ones
that niggled at the edge of her mind. Nay, she refused to think
upon what sea monsters might even now be skimming under her and
around her dangling feet. Nor would she think upon what she would
do if she did not find land soon. Instead, she filled her mind with
happy thoughts, dear remembrances of the merrier times. Like
dancing—dancing for the very first time—around the
Hogmanay
fire this past winter. How gleeful she had been then. Until, of
course, that pompous man, Callum MacGregor had spoiled it for her.
Nay, she would not think of him. Instead, she forced her thoughts
back to more pleasant aspects of that night. Aye, had not the hall
been lovely, with the mistletoe, holly, and hazel adorning the
trestle tables, and rowan branches above every door? And the
scents! Of roasted swan and berries, of juniper, of ale. Aye, that
was a happy time.

At long last, dawn arrived in a mist-shrouded
glimmer of mauves, pinks, and blue-greys. As the sun came up over
the horizon and lit the world around her, Branwenn studied her
surroundings. Her heart pounded with joy in her chest, for there,
in her sights, was land! And she was near enough to the
shoreline—of whose sovereign soil, she knew not—to paddle the rest
of the way inland.

* * *

A Sea Cave on the West Coast of the Highlands

Scotland, Late Summer 1205

Branwenn rose through the foaming waves of
the emerald-green sea for the last time and absently scraped her
newly-shorn raven hair out of her eyes and off of her brow. The
dingy, white finely-woven chemise she wore clung to her slender
form, revealing more than it concealed. As had been her habit these
past days, she swiftly lifted the outer covering away from her body
as she moved toward the boulder upon which rested her green woolen
tunic with the wide sleeves, her seashell-and-sandstone girdle, and
her filet made of the same material. After clothing herself in the
items, she slowly trudged up the rocky shore along the water’s
edge, gathering pretty seashells and small stones as she went. This
last hunt would give her enough to complete the bracelet she’d
begun making to match the filet and girdle she now wore.

‘Twas early yet; the sun was just rising over
the craggy cliff of the sea cave inside of which all her earthly
possessions now resided. A seafowl shrieked overhead and she tipped
her head back to watch its circling flight as it followed the path
of the breaking surf before surveying the banks of the strand for
its meal in the swell’s wake. ‘Twas time and past, she thought
wryly, for her to break her fast as well, tho’ hers would be even
sparser fare.

Another wave crashed onto the shoreline just
then, its frothing edges soaking and tickling her calves and feet
as it sent its salty mist into the air around her. She breathed it
in, exalting in the feeling of freedom it manifested inside of her.
Tho’ ‘twas still quite dim all around her, the sun had begun to
bathe everything in its pinkish-golden glow, making even the most
mundane scenery appear mystical. After another moment of quiet
communion with her surroundings, Branwenn turned once more toward
her secret hideaway.

She’d been living along this seashore for
nigh on a sennight and had yet to see another soul in the area, for
which she was deeply thankful. After being swept overboard into the
northern reaches of the Irish Sea that horrid midnight and then
continuing to be pushed further along with the unrelenting movement
of the water and driving wind current, she at last came close
enough to land the next morn to make her way to shore by her own
propulsion before being aided by a fisherman. It had not taken her
long to realize that she was once more in the land of William, King
of Scots, for ‘twas a western shore she’d landed upon, not an
eastern one, as had been her intent upon setting out on her journey
the night of her betrothal feast. Her conclusion was negated,
however, and most resoundingly in fact, by her fish-procuring
savior. Nay, ‘twas not the shore of William’s land she tread upon,
he’d told her, but the isle of Arren, ruled by Ragnald, King of the
Isles, who refused to be subject to the Scottish crown. The
fisherman then set about filling her belly with a portion of his
morning catch before allowing her to take her rest on his cot. When
she’d awakened a few hours later and found his hut deserted, she’d
left one of the precious few coins she possessed on his table and
quietly slipped out.