Legend of the Mist (8 page)

It was so now. As she lay
with her face pressed to the moist dirt, her lips rippled over the words that were not words, and the melody mingled with her soul, bringing her to a place that felt like home:

Mitelu faeder nathar ce
’in,

Is menma
discirr yfele bith mu,

An-
patel alys cechtar ethin,

An gela
’ed alys riceus dhu.

Norah had
lied to her mother when she claimed she could not help speaking this strange language of hers ... well, perhaps
lie
was not the right word, but she had certainly not told the entire truth. For when she was at the broch, when she was alone and drowning deliciously in its spell, she
did
know she was speaking the words.

As she whispered them now, as she trilled the melody
around their syllables and rhythm, the blurred images of faces whispered before her eyes. They were faces she’d never seen amongst her clanspeople.

These
faces belonged here, in this place, among the secret stones of this ruined structure. They were beautiful, painted with swirling symbols that she’d never seen before.

Symbols which she
had
, somehow, seen before ...

B
y the time the words had run their course, by the time the melody had come to its close, the sun had tracked across the sky, the rolling waves of the sea had stilled, and the moon reflected its silver half-light upon the swelling mist which sheltered the broch, and Norah within it.

* * *

The rickety old cog was an eyesore on the open water with its wide, flat bottom to allow for maximum cargo and high sides to prevent pirates from boarding en route. Those features made it the perfect vessel for a ferry service.

The
cog had set off from the Scottish mainland that morning, commissioned to bring passengers to and from the islands of Orkney and Shetland, and arrived at its last stop in Fara’s harbour as the sun was setting. Though it had been long, the journey had been rather uneventful, for the surprising body of still air which had settled over the region, irritating its inhabitants with its muggy heat, had calmed the seas, making them perfect for travel.

Garrett was the
last of the passengers to disembark that day, for none were interested in visiting the small, inconsequential island of the small, inconsequential Clan Gallach. Indeed his departure was not even remarked upon by the ferryman who, as soon as his final customer was discharged, pushed off the mist-drenched beach without so much as a farewell grunt.

It had been three years since
Garrett had been home, three years spent in Scotland with his uncle Elisedd, chief of Clan Campbell. There he’d fought alongside his mother’s kin, warding off the attacks of the rival MacDonald clan, and instigating enough of their own in return. The rivalry between the equally powerful Campbells and MacDonalds had been raging for longer than anyone could remember; the reasons for the feud were only slightly better remembered.

In his time away, Garrett had honed his skill with a sword in the Scots
way, the way of his own people—
not
of the Norse. His own people were fierce in their own right. Perhaps not as fierce as their island cousins but fierce enough. Garrett had learned much in his time with Elisedd, and had grown much as a man.

Though for all his growing and learning, he still could not find it within himself to defy his father. And this is what
had brought his booted feet to Fara’s shore once more. Fearchar had sent summons to his son in Cowal, the lands of the Campbells, to return home. The dreaded time had come: Norah was to marry the Norseman this summer, and Garrett was expected to attend. However much he might loathe the arrangement.

The event was to take place a year later than
when it had originally been planned, and though Garrett did not know the reason for the delay, he was glad of it for Norah’s sake. And for his own, for it was a year’s reprieve in which he could ignore the sting of his betrayal of her.

He
had missed his home, but he did not want to be here now. This marriage would be the end of Norah’s world, and he had no desire to watch the ceremony, the fatal thrust of the knife into her fragile breast.

Garrett had
told his father that a marriage to the Norseman would kill her, and it was still true these years later. As much as he loved his first-born sister, Norah was not right, not of the world in which the rest of them lived. She belonged to Fara in a way that none of the islanders could, and she would not survive being taken to Rysa Beag or Norway or wherever else that Viking beast might see fit to take her.

But he
could do nothing to stop it, and not only because of his inability to defy his father. In his time with the Campbells he’d come to understand what ruling a clan truly involved. The wisdom of his father’s bargain, no matter how devastating to his daughter, was for the good of the clan. And it had proven fruitful. While the raids continued on the islands surrounding Scotland, and even on the mainland itself, Fara had escaped the carnage.

Garrett was no fool. As much as he would have liked to believe this was luck, he knew it was because the word had spread that Fara was under the protection of Einarr Alfradsson.
The warriors of Clan Gallach were well trained by the Norseman’s hand, but so far they had never had to use their training to protect themselves. The clan’s safety, purchased with Norah’s very life ... there was no denying that it had been wise.

It still made Garrett sick to his stomach to think about it.

Hoisting his sheepskin pack onto his back, his claymore sheathed and protruding from beneath it at his right shoulder, he headed up the sloping, rocky beach. Ascending the steeply pitched foot-path that would take him towards the village, he kicked the low-lying mist into ghostly tendrils as he climbed.

The village had not changed
much since he’d seen it last. The modest stone dwellings with their turf roofs were still painted over with moss. Sheep still roamed the open fields, contenting themselves with the emerald grass beneath their hooves. The villagers waved to him as he passed, tossing up shouts and smiles of delight.

The ones killed in the raid three years ago were still gone. That had not changed, either. Garrett waved and
smiled to the villagers in return, though it was stiff and did not reach his eyes.

His uncle, Iobhar, was the first
of the fortress’ residents to encounter him. The man’s weathered face spread into a wide grin, and his arms opened wide.

“Garrett
! Welcome back, lad, we’ve missed ye so!”

Garrett
slowed, allowing his uncle to close the distance between them, and leaned into the man as he was embraced enthusiastically.

“Uncle,” he
replied, his voice hiccupping from the force of Iobhar’s joyful thumping upon his back.

“Let me look at ye.
” Iobhar stepped back and held Garrett at arms’ length. “Aye, ye’ve grown, lad. I didna think it possible, ye were already nearly as tall as Fearchar when ye left us. But ye have. Ye’re quite the man, I’d say. Yer father will be pleased.”

“Thank ye,
Uncle. Where is Father, d’ye ken?”

“Oh, he’s around, though
I’m no’ sure where just now. Yer mother’s inside fussing over the little things. Come in, come in. Give her yer greetings before the meal is served. I think it will be soon that our Norse
friends
will arrive.”

Garrett allowed Iobhar to lead him inside and into the hall wher
e, indeed, Iseabal was fretting over the irrelevant matter of the placement of the trestle tables. The air inside was stifling from the heat. The centre pit, though laid ready with cut turf for a fire, was unlit, a thing which had never before been seen on Fara at this time of year. The window coverings, too, were drawn back as far as they could be to admit whatever breeze might find its way in through the narrow windows.

“Garrett?”
the lady gasped when she laid eyes on her son.

She rus
hed forward as Iobhar had, her arms widespread, and embraced Garrett with a motherly affection so strong that he realized only now how much he’d missed her. He returned her embrace, and thought to himself that the last time he’d held her it had been hard to put his arms around her for the bairn in her belly. He was wise enough not to remark on the fact, though, for sadly the news had come to him in Cowal a year later that the child, a boy, had died only months after he was born.

“By God
, my son, ye look so different,” Iseabal said. “So much wiser. Like yer father, I think. Ye have the look in yer eye of a man that’s seen life.”

“Mother
.” Garrett managed. After a short pause, he added, “does she ken yet?”

Iseabal pulled back and regarded her son warily. Then
, passing a worried glance to Iobhar beside him, she shook her head.

“She doesna. And she willna until it’s announced at the meal
so ye’ll no’ be telling her anything.”

“I dinna ken
that it would do any good if I did. Where is she?”

“I
havena seen her since this morning. Have ye, Iobhar?”

“I saw her earlier this
morning as well,” Iobhar answered, “but no’ since then.”

Iseabal sighed.
“She’d best be back soon, for our
guests
will be arriving. And ye, son,” she added, “had best see yer father before then, too. He’s missed ye something fierce.”

“Aye, I shall,” Garrett
promised. “And the wee ones. Where are they?”

“They’re in the village,” Iobhar
replied, “thought I wouldna say Madeg is so wee anymore. The lad’s fourteen years this spring past and looking much as ye did when ye were that age. A strapping lad, is he.”

Garrett nodded, pleased that his brothers and yo
unger sister were well. But his pleasure was dampened by Norah’s looming fate, and he could not bring himself to smile. He left without another word.

“Has Fearchar made the right decision, Iobhar?” Iseabal
fretted once Garrett had gone.

Iobhar breathed heavily. “I dinna ken,
my Lady. But it doesna matter, for the deal has been made. If ye deny Einarr his bride and all the alliance and power she brings wi’ her, we’ll no’ have to wait for a raiding party to find us, the Norsemen in our midst will be the end of us.”

“They are here,” called a voice from outside the hall. “They have landed at the harbour.”

“We’ve no more time to debate the matter, I fear,” Iseabal sighed.

“Aye,” Iobhar agreed. “
Let's get it over wi’ then, shall we?”

Seven

The grand feast commenced as it had in the two autumns past since the alliance was forged, with half the diners in the hall growing steadily more exuberant, raucous and drunk, while the other half tolerated the joviality with stoic grace.

Einarr and three of his highest ranking men sat at the high table with the chief and his family
. It was an honour afforded them by virtue of the respect that they demanded without having earned, and the fear which they continued to instil in the people of Fara.

Cook, it appeared, had exaggerated the degree to which young Friseal had ruined the meal, for while the pottage was indeed no more than mutton-flavoured barley and unfit to be served, there were also roast meats, pies, breads a
nd cheeses to be had. And ale; barrels and barrels of ale which the Vikings consumed as readily as if it were water.

“Your
kitchen deserves high praise, as always,” Einarr declared between mouthfuls of roast mutton which he ripped from the joint clutched in his large fist. “If I were to say I look forward to returning to Fara each autumn for the food alone, it would not be far from the truth. Of course I also enjoy the company of your people, Chief
Feh
-ruh-ker.”

“I thank ye,
sir,” Fearchar answered humbly. “Cook will be pleased to hear it.”

“Tell me, if you will, where is that delightful servi
ng girl, the one with the ample—oh, I do not know your word for it but we would say
arsch
. You know the one I mean, ja?”

“That is Brillidh.”

“Ja,
Bree
-ah. As wonderful an
arsch
as ever I’ve seen. What is your word for it? You did not tell me.”

“We would say
bottom
, sir.”

“I think
arsch
sounds better,” Einarr remarked, and his companions at the high table chuckled in response. “I have not seen your
Bree
-ah or her
arsch
since I have returned. She has not come to any harm, I hope?”

“
Nay, she hasna. She has wed the barrel maker, Hamish, nearly a year ago now. They live in the village wi’ their wee bairn, a lad, just two months old.”

“Ah,
what a shame,” Einarr lamented. But he soon overcame his disappointment as a fresh pitcher of ale was brought to the table.

Fearchar breathed a sigh of relief, and glanced knowingly at Iseabal, who sat on his other side and had been listening to the conversation. When Einarr
had begun to ask where the girl Brillidh was, they had both thought he’d been about to ask after Norah, for their daughter had not appeared for the meal as she should have. Norah missing a meal was not unusual, and both Fearchar and Iseabal turned a blind eye to the absences, though it was improper. Their attempts to curb the girl’s strange behaviour had never done any good. But she had known the Norsemen were returning, had even been dressed specially by Iseabal for the occasion. She knew well she was expected to attend
this
meal. And to mind herself.

“
Where in bloody hell is she?” he hissed to his wife.

“I
dinna ken,” she whispered back.

“Iobhar?”

His brother, seated on Iseabal’s left, shook his head.

N
o sooner had they rejoined the conversation at the table than the object of their irritation appeared at the entrance to the hall.

To their dismay she was
markedly dishevelled. Her fine silk tunic and the cream-coloured sleeves of her linen shift were smudged with dirt. What had the lass been doing, napping on a bare patch of dirt? Her rich, auburn hair was also dirt-streaked and discoloured, and the beautiful strands which that morning had been so artfully bound now hung limp and untamed about her face. She gazed around the room, her green eyes glazed and unfocussed. Then, catching her father’s furious glare from across the floor, she straightened and rubbed her eyes with the palms of her dirty hands, leaving further streaks of dirt to mark her unusually pale cheeks.

Understanding too well the degree of trouble in which she had landed herself
, Norah crossed the hall. The diners stared at her as she passed, fixing her with a variety of looks which ranged from curiosity to outright disapproval. She refused to acknowledge the attention, but her cheeks flamed red as she took her seat at the end of the table next to Garrett.

I am sorry
, she mouthed to her father across the distance.

His daughter’s obvious regret over her absence doused the flames of Fearchar’
s anger, though he rallied to keep them alive. Her innocent eyes, wide and trusting, held his across the table, begging his forgiveness.

Begging his forgiveness
, indeed! It was
he
who needed to beg
her
forgiveness for the bargain he had made three years past.

His guilt over the union, he knew, was misplaced. He wa
s chief, and she his daughter—by all rights his property. She would not be the first or the last noble’s daughter to be married strategically.

F
or all its truth, Fearchar had never been able to see any of his children as property. To treat Norah as such now, fragile, mad Norah, whose unnatural disposition rendered her in need of his protection more than the others, ate at Fearchar’s conscience.

It mattered not, though,
for the bargain had been made. A bitter taste rose in his mouth as Einarr gazed down the length of the table at his bride-to-be. The Norseman’s sharp, cold eyes assessed his prize with obvious lust. Fearchar swallowed the outrage which welled in his chest over the blatant display.

“I trust you will make the announcement soon, ja?”
Einarr murmured to the chief.

“
Aye, I will. She will be yers as promised. I willna go back on my word.”

“I did not think you would
.”

The meal continued
with no further incident. The Norse diners provided the hall with the jovial voices of the increasingly drunk, and the Gallachs participated more reservedly in the conversation where they could.

When finally the trenchers
had been cleared from the tables, and before the ale rendered its consumptors too drunk to listen, Fearchar made his announcement. Slowly, and with his stomach churning, he pressed his hands to the slatted board of the trestle table and stood.

“My friends,” he called into the
roar of the hall. When his own hoarse voice failed to earn much notice, he called again, louder. “My friends, I wish to speak.”

Gradually the conversation dimmed
enough that he could continue.

“These past years have been difficult on us all. We shall never forget those no longer at our tables, those no longer here wi’ us in this life.”
Before the Viking presence in the hall could consider the remark a slight he added, “but we are fortunate to have made a new and powerful alliance in this time of uncertainty wi’ the great Einarr Alfradsson and his men. And though we have lost many whom we have loved, we, Clan Gallach, are stronger and better for it.

“Ye dinna ken, however, that this alliance was bought at a price,” he continued, and those at the high table beside him stiffened visibly. Except Norah, that was, who stared
blankly into the crowd. “Einarr’s men have returned to Fara each autumn, and have wintered wi’ us, teaching our men to defend our clan from the battle tactics of the Viking raiders, but we canna have expected they would do so wi’out something in return. Ye dinna ken, my friends, that a bargain were made to secure this alliance. And since Einarr has upheld his end of it, I must now uphold mine.”

Fearchar swallowed thickly, his hands shaking and his voice growing unsteady. “
And that is ... that is I ... I have agreed that our people will be bonded through the marriage of my eldest daughter, Norah, to Sir Einarr.”

There was a gasp, and a general fluttering from the islanders in the hall as they looked to one another, wide eyed.

Norah, though, did not immediately register her father’s revelation since she had not been paying attention. She’d found the words had been disjointed. They bounced off one another in her head, scattering into fragments of sound. But the sudden silence brought them crashing together into harsh meaning.

Marriage
!

Her
already pale face grew even paler. She gazed with slow horror at her father, not entirely believing that he was serious. The grave expression with which he gazed back at her confirmed he did not jest.

Beside
him, Einarr stood from the table. He peered down at her, his expression full of triumph. His chiselled, deeply tanned face surrounded by golden braids frightened her; his cold, blue eyes pierced her soul. Shattering the fine, delicate barrier which existed within her, which separated her sanity from her madness.

She could not marry this man. He was not the one. Her life, her soul was inextricably connected with Fara
. Whatever grand destiny, or sorry fate, awaited her, this Viking leader had no part in it whatsoever. Her madness was a like tale, a legend in its own right etched into her being as if in stone. Though she could not read its words, could not decipher its meaning, the tale was unalterable.

And
it did
not
include the name Einarr Alfradsson.

“N-
No,” Norah stammered, shaking her head. “No, Father, I canna.”

Fearchar’s face darkened. He had
anticipated her disapproval, expected it even. But he had not considered that she would outright refuse in front of the entire clan and their Norse guests. Her shaking head and her flat denial of his will embarrassed him; embarrassed the proud name of Gallach.

“Ye can, and ye will, lass,” he said evenly. “Get ye, upstairs. Now.”

“Come, Norah,” Garrett urged beside her. “Come upstairs wi’ me, will ye?” Gently, he lifted her by the elbow and led her from the hall. Fearchar followed with Iseabal at his side; Iobhar trailed behind Einarr. No one else dared move or speak as they left.

Norah’s
chin swayed from shoulder to shoulder absently; her vision blurred and the hall darkened. She felt the light touch of Garrett’s hand on her elbow, perceived the colours of objects as they slipped past her on her way. Her knees bent and lifted her feet one after the other as she mounted the wooden stairs of the keep. Conscious action, however, was not behind any of it. Her mind had turned inward, revolving at a furious pace.

She could not marry Einarr, she simply could
not
. She did not know exactly what her fate was meant to be, but this was not it.
He
was not it. He would take her away, take her over the water. And water would be her end. Did the man not see that? Did
Father
not see that? They had to know that she would die if she married Einarr Alfradsson, they simply had to!

“Father please, I canna marry him,” she begged when
the group reached the upper floor of the keep and the door shut behind them. The fire was not lit, and the last of the evening light was disappearing rapidly, swallowed up into the mist which spilled into the room over the windowsills.

“Enough,
daughter,” Fearchar insisted. “Ye’ll marry him. Ye’ll do as I say.”

“I promise, I will be fair and gentle with you,
fifla
,” Einarr put in. “You will want for nothing as long as you are an obedient and good
vif
.”

“Bu
t—but I canna be yer wife, sir. I’m sorry, but ‘tis impossible.”

“Norah, for heaven’s sake, shut yer trap,” Iobhar growled. “Ye dinna have a choice, lass.”

“This were yer destiny three years past, daughter,” Fearchar agreed. “It’s time ye meet it, for Einarr has been patient.”

“Patient?”

“It were yer father that asked the marriage wait a few years,” Iseabal explained gently.

Norah looked around
at the occupants of the room, taking in one face after another. They all stared back with a range of expressions: Iseabal and Fearchar with concern and regret; Iobhar with impatience; Einarr with satisfaction. Garrett was the only one among them that could not meet her eyes.

“Garrett?” she implored, her voice wavering.

He raised his chin and lowered it again. “Aye, Norah, Father speaks true. ‘Tis time.”

“
Ye ... ye kent? Ye kent and ye said nothing to me?”

“What would I have said even if I could have?”

The realization that they had all conspired against her—all of them, even Garrett—washed over Norah like the waves of the winter sea. Her knees buckled and she sunk to the ground. She’d been betrayed by the people who were meant to protect her. Dazed and silent, she stared into the empty fire pit.

“Well then, that’s settled,” Fearchar said
heavily. Addressing Einarr, he concluded, “We’ll back to the hall, sir. Norah, I think it best ye remain here for the rest of the night. Collect yerself, and make peace wi’ yer future, aye?”