On a Highland Shore (12 page)

At night, when the court gathered in the hall, she joined the dancers, trying to learn the intricate steps of unfamiliar dances. She was a popular partner, not only for the dances, but for conversation, which she joined with alacrity, hoping to find someone in the crowds here. But none touched her, not her body, not her mind, and each night she went to her bed knowing she’d failed, that there were not two men here for her and Nell, that her great plan was in tatters. He waits, she thought; but apparently not here.

She pinned all her hopes on the audience with the king that William had promised to try to attain. And on the sixth day, she was summoned.

When the page came for her, she stood frozen in a mixture of disbelief and fear. She’d spent so much time waiting and preparing her petition to the king, but now she stared at the boy with not an idea in her head of how to present her case. She followed him along the corridors, careful as they passed the stone walls being built and pulling her skirts back from the wooden walls full of mold and splinters that lined the passageway.

The worst of it was that Lachlan had been so very repentant and so charming these last few days at Stirling. How could she expect anyone to see him as she did? How to explain this to King Alexander and Queen Margaret, whose own arranged marriage was, by all accounts, a very happy one? Not at first, if the stories were true, but within a few years. And certainly now that they were parents. But try she must, if for no other reason than her own peace of mind. If she failed here, she’d have years to review it. How could she bear not having tried at all?

The room she was brought to was not large, but well lit, the afternoon sun pouring through the luxury of glassed windows, making the colors of the enormous rug that covered most of the floor vibrant, and lighting the hangings that closed off the corridors that led to the royal apartments, the golden threads in the silk shining in the diffused light. She’d hoped for a private audience, but the room was crowded with people, all watching her entrance.

King Alexander was seated in a large wooden chair, not really a throne, but tall and painted with the royal crest of Scotland, the scarlet lion rampant above his head. He was dressed simply, his robes beautifully cut, of fine material, but not ornate. Queen Margaret, looking even more regal than her husband, was seated on a smaller but far more ornate chair, which bent around her as if to protect her from the world. Her clothing was simple as well, but her overgown was trimmed with golden thread and the coif on her head banded with gemstones. Her waiting women, many of them Comyns, were gathered together like a well-dressed phalanx of guards, their expressions amused and expectant, as though they were about to be entertained. Very near them, dressed in his finest, was Lachlan, who bent low to her, his bow perfect, his eyes unreadable. Uncle William smiled at her warmly, but Rignor’s expression betrayed his unease. When he would not meet her gaze, her heart pounded more heavily. Margaret’s curtsy was awkward at best, but neither the king nor queen seemed to notice. Alexander gave Lachlan a glance, and Queen Margaret studied Margaret’s person, her gaze lingering on Margaret’s face, but missing no detail in its journey to her feet. At this distance Margaret was able to see how young both the king and queen were, just a few years older than she. Alexander smiled now, and the knot in her stomach loosened a bit.

“Yer Majesty,” Margaret said, appalled at the croak her voice had become.

“I present my niece, Yer Majesties,” William said, coming forward to join her. “My sister’s child. Margaret of Somerstrath.”

The king’s smile widened. “Welcome, Margaret. Your father is a loyal man who keeps the west safe for Us. We are grateful for his efforts.”

“Aye, Yer Majesty,” Margaret said. “He does his best.”

The titters of laughter around her made her cheeks flush. With only a handful of words she’d shown her lack of sophistication.

“My father keeps the shoreline strong,” she said, raising her chin.

“And does it well, from what I’ve heard,” Alexander said, with another glance at Lachlan. “But that is not why you’ve come to visit Us, is it?”

“My niece asks for yer attention for just a few moments,” William said.

The king nodded and gestured to Lachlan. “Our cousin has explained it to us. And apologized to you, I understand. Is that so, Margaret?”

She nodded. “It is, Yer Majesty.”

Lachlan moved forward now, putting a hand on Margaret’s elbow. He smiled at the king and bowed again. “By your leave, Cousin.”

The king nodded, and Lachlan continued, smiling down at Margaret.

“I’ve offended her with my behavior. But I am determined to change that.” He threw a glance over his shoulder at Queen Margaret’s women. “As the Comyn women have told me, I must be a good husband to have one of their own. Her uncle, the Earl of Ross has done the same, as has Margaret’s father. And I have listened well. I do remind them, and Margaret, that we are not yet wed. I have broken no vow.”

“I ask…” Margaret began, quickly silenced by a gesture from William.

“By yer leave, Yer Majesty, “William said. “Margaret would like to speak.”

At the king’s nod, all eyes turned toward her. Margaret swallowed, then removed her elbow from Lachlan’s grasp.

“I ask Yer Majesty to release me from the betrothal made so many years ago. We…are not well suited, and I ask that we not be forced to marry.” She ignored the muffled laughter of the listeners. She knew how simple she sounded, but could not seem to remedy it. She felt a wave of cold wash over her, followed by another of violent heat, her cheeks no doubt scarlet.

“You are aware,” the king said, “that your betrothal was determined years ago by those who had only your best interests in mind? This alliance will strengthen your father’s family and my holdings in the west?”

“I am sure that is so, Yer Highness, but…”

Queen Margaret leaned forward, her tone kind. “You realize, of course, that my marriage to King Alexander was arranged?” She glanced at the king fondly. “It is possible to find happiness and comfort in such an arrangement.”

The king smiled at his queen, and Margaret knew she was lost. Alexander waved his hand dismissively. “You are young, Margaret, and lovely. Surely Lachlan will attend you well.”

Lachlan’s smile was triumphant. “I will indeed, Yer Majesty.”

Margaret threw her brother a look of appeal, but Rignor avoided her gaze, the flush on his cheeks the only sign that he knew she’d turned to him.

“But…” Margaret said, her words fading to silence as William whispered to her to curtsy, which she did.

The next few moments were a blur. Somehow she was bundled out of the hall, Lachlan and William at her side and Rignor nowhere in sight.

“Well, ye did it,” Lachlan whispered. “Humiliated both of us. And for what?”

“Enough, Lachlan,” William said coldly.

“That’s it?” Margaret asked, her tears beginning to fall. “That’s all the time I’m given with them? I dinna even get to talk. I dinna get to explain…”

“Ye said enough to shame the both of us,” Lachlan said.

“That’s enough!” William said.

Lachlan sneered at both of them. “I’m adult enough to live up to my obligations. Ye should do the same.”

Margaret raised her chin but could not speak before Lachlan walked away.

He paused at the door. “I’ll be sending for Fiona after we’re wed. Ye’ll be needing a companion.” He left them staring after him.

They were silent for a moment, then William sighed heavily. “I’ve received word from home that I’ve visitors from Ireland awaiting me. I’ll be leaving in the morning. I’ll send men back for ye in a week, unless ye wish to spend the rest of the summer here. The Comyns have said they’ll be happy to have ye stay.”

Aye, for entertainment, Margaret thought, but did not say that to him. William was fond of his wife’s family, and in truth, the Comyn women had been very kind. It was not their fault that she’d failed at her one chance with the king.

Nell was not pleased to leave before dawn, was not even sure why her uncle had hurried away, his face creased with worry. Problems in the north was all he’d said, but weren’t there always problems somewhere? The past week had been most frustrating. She’d tried in vain to find Liam Crawford, or even anyone who had more than passing knowledge of him, but it was as though she’d conjured the man. She’d tried to find the old woman as well, but was thwarted there, too, told that the seer rarely left the royal apartments and no longer gave readings for the public.

Margaret had withdrawn from her since her audience with the king and queen, had said only that she’d failed, that instead of pleading her case with well-chosen words, she’d merely stood there like a ninny while Lachlan assured Alexander and Queen Margaret that he’d be the perfect husband. They didn’t care whom Margaret married. Why would they? Nell thought Margaret’s self-chastisement unnecessary; she did not believe that anything Margaret could have said would have made any difference.

Nell wished they weren’t going home. What would happen now? Her sister would continue to defy her parents, and they would be furious. She’d asked Margaret several times what she meant to do, but her sister had little to say. Rignor was even less communicative. He rode with the Somerstrath men and avoided Margaret, who treated him coldly. Nell asked why, but neither would tell her anything.

The ride was easy, both the weather and ponies cooperating to make their journey west swift, as though God Himself were hurrying them home. Uncle William’s men received messages from him twice, and they talked with Rignor in serious tones. She didn’t need to be told that something had happened on Uncle’s William’s lands, nor that Margaret and Rignor had argued. Good thing she could see that for herself, because no one told her anything. She was treated like a child.

Except by Liam Crawford, who seemed to know that her body and mind were not the same age. She ignored Margaret and Rignor then, losing herself in imagining how the two of them would become…what had he said?…well acquainted. Nell
Crawford
. She wished she could grow up more quickly.

Margaret took no comfort in their rapid progress west. She tried not to think, simply to be, to notice the heather’s bright blooms on every hillside, how it crept up the sides of the mountains, lighting the darkest glens with its purples and bright hues. To see the trees filling more every day with pale green leaves, to hear the wind sighing through the pines, always a favorite sound, and the sights of summer in full flower. To feel the temperature drop as they followed the path into the shadowed Pass of Brenmargon, knowing she’d sleep that night at Brenmargon Abbey and that William’s men would leave them to make the rest of their way home alone.

Rignor would not tell her what William’s troubles were, and she’d been too proud to beg him for the news. She had better become accustomed to being ignored if she was about to become a wife. She sighed, thinking of how inadequate she’d been in her interview with the king. After all those speeches in her head, she’d failed. She should have heeded the raven that had screeched its warning as they’d left Somerstrath. This trip had been ill-starred from the beginning.

Judith’s welcome that night at Brenmargon Abbey was as warm as ever, her hospitality frugal but adequate. After the others had found their beds, Judith gave her a long lecture about using the abbey as a place to hide from the world. Margaret kept her answers civil, but when at last she found her bed her heart was sore. Everyone, it seemed, had an opinion about her life and felt compelled to share it. And tomorrow, at home, her parents would tell her theirs.

William’s men left them the next day to make the rest of their way home alone. Margaret, Nell, and Rignor lingered at the shielings, enjoying the warm sunlight and telling the Somerstrath people there all the news of court. Most of it. Margaret kept her disappointment with her visit to court, and herself, to herself.

Her pony smelled it before she did, and shied to the side of the track, causing Margaret to grip its mane with both hands. She could see no reason for its unease, but around her the other ponies were raising their heads and sniffing the air, and soon she, too, caught a whiff. Smoke. And something more, something foul and frightening. What was it?

She met Rignor’s gaze over Nell’s head. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. She took a deep breath and coughed. The smell grew worse as they headed into the trees that clogged the glen east of the village, and the ponies’ agitation increased.

Rignor, his brows drawn together now, took the lead. At the top of the rise that led down to Somerstrath, Rignor suddenly thrust out his arm, preventing anyone from moving forward. He stared down at the village, then turned to Margaret, his eyes wild. He pointed, his mouth working but no sound issuing from it. The smell was stronger now, the stench unlike anything she’d ever smelled before, of wood and something she could not identify. With a pounding heart she nudged her pony forward.

“It’s all gone,” Rignor whispered. “Gone.”

T
he keep still stood, but its roof was now a smoldering mass. The walls of the village near the harbor had been breached, the gates battered open. Sections of it lay on the ground, barely visible under the bodies that littered it. The villagers’ houses lining the pathway to the harbor had been burned, or lay open like broken eggshells.

The harbor was empty; her father’s ships, drawn up on the shingle, were charred humps, not recognizable except by their long shapes. There were people everywhere, lying in pools of blood in the broken houses and in knots on the shore. Nothing moved in the wreckage below. The guards moved up to see, their harsh cries and strangled gasps loud in the sudden silence.

Margaret put a hand to her throat. “Oh dear God.”

Nell screamed when she saw what lay below. “The head on the beach.”

Margaret forced herself to be calm and look again.
Think
. Perhaps some of the people had escaped. Perhaps not all those lying below were dead; perhaps some needed tending. Perhaps her mother and father and their brothers were alive, waiting to be found, needing her help. She looked into Rignor’s eyes, saw his fear, and felt her own fear swell.

“We have to go down there.” Her voice shook. “Mother and Father…what if they’re waiting for us, hoping we’ll come?”

“Aye,” Rignor said, then turned to the guards. “Stay here with Nell.”

“My father is down there, sir,” one said. “I’ll no’ stay here and wonder.”

“I’m not staying here alone,” Nell said.

Margaret and Rignor exchanged a glance.

“Then stay behind me,” Margaret told Nell. “Be ready to run if I tell ye.”

Nell nodded, her eyes huge. Rignor drew his sword from its sheath; Margaret did the same. It was little defense against the horror that lay ahead, but she’d been trained to use it, and if any of the beasts that had done this remained, she’d be ready to take them on. Behind her she heard Nell draw her dagger, and the guards grabbed their swords.

They moved slowly down the hill, through the inland gates, hanging open but intact. The outermost houses still stood, but even here, far from the harbor, there were none without damage. They paused, listening.

Overhead the wind blew, harder now, bringing clouds and the promise of rain. Somewhere, out of sight, a door banged open, then shut. There was no other sound. No laughter coming from the houses, no children’s songs, no scolding or arguing, no quiet conversation. No dogs barked. Nothing.

She’d been wrong. The head on the beach had indeed been an omen, a portent of evil on the way. She took a deep breath and immediately regretted it as her lungs filled with smoke-filled air, and that dreadful, sickening smell she had not been able to identify earlier. She now knew what it was—the stench of burned human flesh, of roasted wool and timbers. The smell of the immolation of her home and everything she loved.

Rignor slid from his pony and stepped away from it, his sword held high. The guards did the same. As did Margaret, facing the closest house with a mixture of fear and dread and shameful hope that there would be nothing horrible to see, that when they entered people would be there, cowering, perhaps, but safe. Rignor pushed the door open with his fingertips, ready to spring back if necessary. His caution was not needed; there was no one to leap out, no one waiting to attack. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then backed away and vomited into the dirt.

One of the guards looked in and stared, turning to Margaret at last, his face unnaturally pale. “My father…I have to find…” he stammered, then ran down the hill.

The others seemed to melt away after him. Margaret did not have the heart to call them back. She knew each wife, each child, each parent they sought and feared she knew what they would find.

“What is it?” Nell asked at Margaret’s elbow.

Margaret shook her head. Rignor wiped his mouth and stared at the house.

“Stay back,” she said to Nell, then pushed the door open. There were two women here, three children. All were dead. The women had been brutally raped, their bodies bearing mute testimony of what had been done to them. An infant had died in its cradle. The two small children huddled together in a corner, their hands still gripping each other.

She heard her own groan, an incoherent sound of horror, and stumbled out of the house, her hand over her mouth. Rignor stood in the doorway of the next house, and turned now to face her, his expression ravaged.

“What is it?” Nell’s voice was terrified. “Margaret…?”

“Dinna look!” Margaret said, grabbing Nell’s arm as her sister moved toward the doorway. “Dinna look in there!”

“Are they dead?” Nell whispered.

“Aye. God help us all, aye.”

House after house was the same. Men had died in the streets, their weapons still in their hands. Some had died running away, others fighting at the doorway of their homes. No one had been spared—women and children had died by the score, some in their beds, some cut down wherever they stood. Margaret stumbled down the hill behind Rignor. They checked every house. They found no one alive.

Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think
.

They stopped before what had once been the gatehouse, staring at the still-smoldering roof of the keep.
Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think
. The chant ran through her mind, but thought was already very difficult. There was a roaring in her ears, almost like the sea. She no longer even saw the bodies of the men who had died here, simply stepped over the fallen who lay strewn across the stone courtyard and in the storeroom that had been the ground floor. Rignor waited at the foot of the stairs, dark and silent, that led to the private apartments. No one challenged them; there was no pounding of boots down the stairs to see who had entered.

Nell was shaking and clutched Margaret’s arm convulsively, bringing her back to the present. Margaret already knew what they would find upstairs, and Nell must not see any of it. She opened the door to the tiny storeroom that held the guards’ weapons, sending a prayer of thanks for its emptiness. She thrust her sister into the small space.

“Stay here,” she said, pushing Nell to the back of the room.

“No!” Nell clutched at her. “Dinna leave me here! Dinna leave me alone!”

“You must stay here. I will come back for ye, I swear it. Dinna make a sound. If anyone comes, be silent. Do ye understand? Ye must be quiet.”

Nell nodded mutely.

Margaret nodded in return, then joined Rignor. In the stairwell she clutched the walls as she climbed, taking stairs two or three at a time to avoid stepping on someone. There were dead on every step. Some she could no longer recognize, but others were men—and boys—with whom she’d spoken every day of her life, their faces all too familiar even in death.

Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think
.

They found their father’s body at last, on the stairs that led to the family’s quarters, killed along with his men. Margaret knelt beside him, taking his lifeless hand in her own, willing his heart to beat, his staring eyes to find her gaze. She wanted his mouth, clenched in a grimace, to move, to tell her it was all a sham. That none of this was real, that it was all a dream from which she’d wake. That such evil had not been done in the course of one summer’s day.

“Is he…?” Rignor’s sword clanked against the wall, his face the same color as the stone. “Is he…?”

Margaret nodded, and Rignor crumbled for a moment. Then they climbed the last few steps to their parents’ chamber together, hoping against hope, but there was no hope this day. They were all here. Their mother lay on the floor on her back, her skirts bundled at her waist. She, like all the other women, had been raped, her legs askew. Rignor gasped and staggered backward into a corner with an animal-like moan, but Margaret, the roaring in her ears growing louder, leaned to pull her mother’s clothing over her still-swollen belly, to smooth the hair, sticky with blood, from her mother’s forehead.

Inghinn, her father’s mistress, who had also been brutalized, lay in a corner, her baby’s body not far away. They had died together, these rivals for her father’s affections, tied now in death as they had been in life.

Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think
.

She turned slowly to see the rest. Her brothers had died together as well, Ewan in the forefront, his small sword still in his clenched hand. Cawley was on the bed, little Fergus tucked into the farthermost corner, his eyes closed and his mouth open in a silent scream.

She sank to the ground, closing her eyes against the sights before her.

Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think
.

Nell was so afraid. How could Margaret have left her alone? She shivered and hugged her arms around herself. It was so quiet. She’d been waiting a very long time, huddled here in this tiny room, watching the dead men in the courtyard. She was afraid to open the door wider, but even more frightened of being alone in the dark with the images she’d seen on her way through the village.

Where was her father? Nell asked herself for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time stopped herself. She could think of no reason her father would not be with his men—and his men were all dead. And if her father were dead—what then had happened to her mother and brothers? Where were Margaret and Rignor? Had they forgotten her? She shivered in the dark, afraid to stay, afraid to go.

A movement at the far side of the courtyard made her shrink back into the shadows. Was one of the dead men rising? But no, the man who bent low and scurried across the stones with a sword in his hand was very much alive. She released her breath as she recognized one of the guards who had accompanied them. He paused, looking over his shoulder, then moved forward again, his expression intent. When he came into the guardroom, Nell stepped forward, calling his name.

“Jesu!” The guard lowered his sword and blew out a huff of air, then glanced over his shoulder again. “Where is yer brother?”

Nell pointed to the stairwell. “Up there. With Margaret.”

“They’ve come back, miss. We have to get out of here.”

Nell stared at him, unable to speak.

“Go and get Rignor, will ye, lassie? I’ll make sure they dinna get past me.”

She nodded and moved to the stairwell, but paused with her foot on the first step. “What about yer father?”

“Dead, lassie. Now go get yer brother and sister. We dinna ha’ much time.”

The first few steps were clear, but as she came around the first curve, she found the men of her father’s personal guard. She gasped, willing herself to keep climbing, stepping over the bodies, concentrating on finding a path through the arms and legs and blood that blocked her way.

Her father lay on his back, surrounded by his most trusted men. Nell stared at him for several moments, her mind frozen, before she was able to move past. She was sobbing when she reached her mother’s room.

Margaret lay huddled on the floor, her back to the door. For a horrible moment Nell thought Margaret was dead, too, but as she crept closer, she could see that her sister was crying, her cheek pressed against the wood. Rignor was near the window, and turned to her now, his face streaked with tears. And then she saw her mother and brothers. She screamed, then screamed again. And again.

Nell’s screams roused Margaret from the oblivion she’d sought. She rose to her feet with a hoarse cry and drew her sister into her arms, rocking Nell until she calmed. Over Nell’s head, Margaret stared at her brothers. Ewan, brave little Ewan, who had tried to hold back death with a ten-inch blade. And Cawley. And Fergus, who broke her heart. She caught her breath, then looked again.

“Davey,” she said.

Rignor turned to her with a puzzled frown.

She pointed. “Davey’s not there.”

They all stared at the bed.

“Margaret!” Rignor cried. “He’s not here!”

“Look under the bed,” Margaret said, spinning to look where else in the room an eight-year-old could be hiding. The draperies had been torn from the window, the bedhangings from the bedframe. The clothes chests gaped open and empty. There was nowhere else to look. Rignor looked under the bed, then sat back on his heels and shook his head.

“Rignor,” said a male voice. “Sir.”

Margaret stared at the guard in the doorway. She’d forgotten about him. He glanced around the room, his face paling as he took it all in.

“We have to go. Now. They’ve come back. They’re coming through the village now.”

They rushed down the stairs, hoping to leave the keep and run inland, but when the guard peeked out the arrow slit, he said the men were closer.

Rignor looked. “We willna get out before they’re here. We’ll have to hide.”

“In the storeroom,” Margaret said. “Where Nell was.”

On the ground floor they hurried into the storeroom, huddling together in the small space. Margaret prayed silently that the darkness would protect them. The storeroom door would not close without noise, so they left it partially open, affording her a view of the entrance. And then they waited.

It was not a moment too soon. She’d just tightened her grip on Nell and caught her breath when a man paused in the doorway.

He filled the opening. His shoulders were wide, his waist trim; the top of his head was well above the doorjamb. In his right hand was a long sword, its steel gleaming; in his belt was a battle-axe. A leather shield was slung over his shoulder, its leather band across his chest. Around his strong neck a golden torque gleamed against tanned skin. His clothing was simple: a long linen tunic over trousers, a cloak pinned by a golden brooch, leather boots. The tunic was bound by a leather belt that pulled the cloth against his lean torso. His trousers were tapered at the ankle and tightly fitted against his thighs. His hair was pulled back from his brow, cascading over his shoulders, long and blond. His eyes were dark and stared into the guardroom.

He moved his head as though listening, and she caught her breath as the light hit his face, highlighting strong cheekbones and jawline, the hollows of his cheeks. He was fearsome. Breathtaking. A Norseman. A Viking. A murderer.