Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 (21 page)

“Ye did what ye needed to do to survive,” Sorcha said gently. “By killing that man, ye avenged father’s death and the death of our brothers.”

“Oh, dear Gillis,” Caterina said, tears in her eyes. “Dear, dear man. Everyone is afraid. The bravest men and women are those who learn to forgive themselves.”

Part 2

Mull, Magic, and the
Edinburgh Royal Court

32

A misty morning was breaking as the galley crossed a narrow stretch of water to the Maclean castle. The journey to Mull had been punctuated by both storms and sunshine, but mostly storms.

              The Isle of Mull was anchored off the west coast of Scotland, separated from the mainland by the Sound of Mull. It was a large island with sea cliffs a thousand feet high, a vast mountain range, white cockleshell sands, and a clear blue sea. The men chanted in Gaelic as they pulled twenty-six oars through the water, and Sorcha stared in wonder at the great fortress that sat upon a dark rock.

“What are the rowers chanting about?” she asked.

              “It is a lament,” Malcolm said. “A boat chant that has been sung by Macleans for many, many years, a song to appease the witches of Mull so we may cross the water safely.”

              “The witches of Mull?” The wind tugged at Sorcha’s auburn curls and she pulled her cloak more tightly about herself.

              “Aye. Ye’ve nae heard the tale, lass?”

              She shook her head.

              “It has long been said Mull is home to a race of witches with extraordinary powers. One of these is called
Cailleach Bheur,
whose home was near a point on the southwest, close to the shore, in a wild, rocky place, exposed to the force of the western gale with the unending roar of the ocean. Every one hundred years she would immerse herself in the waters to obtain youth. But if she failed to do this in the morning, before bird tasted water or dog was heard to bark, the charm would lose its potency. One morning, just as she climbed down the slopes and was about to dunk herself in the water that would have changed her haggard form into a bonny young maid, the distant bark of a dog welcomed the first gray streaks along the eastern sky and echoed among the bens and hills. The charm was broken and the witch turned to dust. The rowers sing of her lament. Mull has been called the Island of Gloom, for ‘tis said nae witch can e’er cross the waters to leave it.”

“’Tis hard to believe anyone would call this a place of gloom,” Sorcha said.

The vivid green slopes were marbled with pink and red granite and littered with cascading waterfalls. Sprays of orchids, pink thrift, and yellow irises splashed across the glens. Seals frolicked in rock covers and herons stretched their elegant, white necks in rock pools. Eagles soared overhead.

              “I’m glad ye like it. I hoped ye would.”

              A fleet of oaken, broad-beamed galleys swayed with the tide in the bay, and when they reached shore, men waited there with horses for them. Sorcha rode next to Malcolm and as they climbed the hill, he talked of the castle and his family. “My mother was brought up this vera hill years ago, during a blinding snowstorm, after my father rescued her from clan MacKinnon, who had thought to burn her at the stake for her gift of the Sight.”

“’Tis an incredible tale of bravery and love,” Sorcha said.

“Despite what ye’ve heard about us, lass, Macleans are capable of great love.” He looked at her but his expression was inscrutable.

They were silent for a while as Sorcha took her fill of the amazing views all around her.

“Yer ancestors took their name from the word for fabled black stream, ‘
Dubh-glas,’
” he said.
“‘Duart’ comes from the Gaelic word ‘
Dubh-ard
’, which means ‘black keep’. So I guess there is blackness in both our souls.” His mouth twitched with amusement.

Mist floated above the gray stones where generations of Macleans had lived and died. The keep did indeed sit upon a great black rock and thus the Macleans did not have to worry overmuch about intruders. On two sides, it was naturally protected by rock cliffs, which stretched to the sea beneath it. The landward side was defended by a rock-cut ditch and exceptionally thick walls.

“There has been a castle here since the 1200s,” Malcolm said. “But these were MacKinnon lands before us, so ye can see why there’s a long history of feuding between our clans. Most of what you see now was added to the castle about eighty years ago.”

“Vikings raided these shores,” Sorcha said.

“Aye. They first raided in the year 794, a monastery on Iona, a place of prayer and pilgrimage.”

“‘Tis said the Macleans were so wicked they had to send hundreds of missionaries from Iona.”

Malcolm smiled.

“How did the Macleans come to be here?”

“My ancestor Wily Maclean’s marriage was a tricky one. Wily, or Lachlan Lubanach Maclean, had to obtain permission from the Pope to marry his cousin Margaret MacDonald. Her father wasna convinced, so Wily kidnapped him. In the ruckus, a MacKinnon chief was killed. Oddly, these tactics won Margaret’s father over. He gave Wily land for his daughter’s dowry, and this castle was built.”

When they reached the keep, stable hands took to the care of their horses. Sorcha was admiring the Maclean coat of arms proudly carved into the stone entranceway to the castle when a petite woman with blonde hair tinged with gray emerged. She immediately embraced Malcolm. “Och son, how I ha’e missed ye! And ye, lass, must be Sorcha.” She embraced Sorcha just as warmly. “I am Isobel Maclean. Welcome to our home. I am sorry we werena able to travel to Douglas lands for the wedding ceremony but we ha’e planned our own celebration here.”

“Thank ye for welcoming me,” Sorcha said. “‘Tis a pleasure to meet ye, Isobel.”

A tall, dark-haired man who was an older version of Malcolm emerged from the castle. Silver tipped his temples but otherwise his hair was as black as midnight. He gripped Malcolm’s hand in fatherly affection and embraced Sorcha. “Welcome,” he said. “I am Leith Maclean.”

“The resemblance of father and son is remarkable,” Sorcha said. The man they called the Black Wolf smiled. “Aye.”

“The reason we couldna travel to the Douglas keep is because our only daughter Andreana was expecting her first child,” Isobel said.

Nathair muscled his way through the crowd at the arched doorway. “
Was
expecting?” His frowned. “I missed the birth of my child? Is all well?”

Isobel took the big hand of the war advisor in her own and beamed. “Ye ha’e a son, Nathair. A lusty, healthy lad. He was born three days ago.”

Nathair’s face was transformed by joy. “I’m a Da!” he cheered as the men around him clapped his back in congratulation. “And Andreana?” he asked.

“Hearty and hail,” she said. “She hopes ye will approve of the name Alec.”

“Excuse me, my lady,” he said, “but I must go see my wife and meet this wee lad Alec!” He raced inside the castle.

Malcolm grinned. “I’m an uncle. I canna wait to meet the wee lad myself!”

Leith placed his hand on Isobel’s shoulder and she reached up to clasp his fingers. “We ha’e many things to celebrate,” she said, her green eyes shining with happiness. “Yer safe return Malcolm, a wedding, and a new babe. But Sorcha, ye must be exhausted from yer journey. Let’s see ye settled. Ye can rest and later we can begin introductions.”

33

Sorcha was shown to Malcolm’s room. It had a masculine feel, with a stag’s head mounted on the wall, weapons propped in the corner, a desk near the window, trunks, a garderobe, and a large canopied bed. His nightshirt hung on a pole and several shirts lay near the hearth. The window overlooked the jewel-blue sea. She rested alone and enjoyed the quiet and then returned to the great hall.

A grand feast was had in honor of Malcolm’s marriage, which had taken place on Douglas lands, and she was introduced to clan members and villagers until her head spun. It was clear how well respected Malcolm was and most were courteous to Sorcha.

She talked briefly with Malcolm’s sister Andreana and met the new babe Alec. She also met Nathair’s uninhibited sister Dolina, who had a fondness for whisky and singing and liked to sit in the lap of her lusty husband and pet his head as if he were a hound. The old war advisor Errol watched the festivities with a frown but Sorcha was told that was his usual look.

The enchanting sounds of the Gaelic language surrounded her, and Sorcha learned there was another MacKinnon at the keep, a man named Tomas. He’d been given sanctuary here when he was a lad of eleven summers and had stolen Maclean cattle. Because he was a child at the time, Leith had shown him mercy and now the lad was a grown man with a wife and a son who was loyal to clan Maclean.

After Sorcha danced with Malcolm, he introduced her officially as his wife and kissed her in front of clan and villager alike. She danced for many hours after that, and found she enjoyed the high energy, the intricate steps, which she learned quickly, and the rapid changing of partners. It was a challenge to keep up but she did so.

Ranulph and Dugald, two men who were clearly great friends but who insulted each other constantly as if they were brothers, both asked her to dance. “Yer too auld and fat to dance!” Ranulph said to Dugald.

“There are worse sins than growing auld and fat,” Dugald replied, taking Sorcha’s hand. “At least I am nae gormless like ye, Ranulph, with the face and teeth of a braying donkey! And despite my girth, I am a better dancer than ye, ye be-slubbering tart!”

              After the dancing, they ate a lavish meal that included cheese, roast pork, roast chicken, wild boar, seared salmon from the nearby loch, venison, stewed pears and cloudberries. Sorcha sat at the great table with Malcolm, Isobel, Leith, Andreana, Nathair, and Errol. Before the meal and between courses, shallow basins and linen towels were offered to guests so they could wash their hands. Heather ale, cider, and whisky were poured.

              Sorcha found the foods, spiced with Highlands native herbs such as boy myrtle, wild garlic, vetch, and wild marjoram, delicious.

People cheered when the wedding cakes, stacked one atop the other, were brought into the hall and Malcolm handed his dirk to Sorcha so she could cut the first piece as his hand guided hers. They each took a bite of cake, the sumptuous dessert melting in her mouth.

“Now ye must kiss me o’er the top of the cakes without knocking them o’er, lass,” he said.

“What happens if I topple them?” Sorcha asked. “Is it bad luck?”

              “’Tis a waste of perfectly good wedding cake, that’s what,” he said and laughed.

Gingerly, Sorcha stood on her toes and tried to lift herself above the top of the cakes and kiss him. He pulled her close and kissed her so fiercely and possessively the two smaller cakes fell to the floor. Sorcha didn’t notice until he raised his head and his amber eyes shone with lust and amusement. Loud cheers arose.

              “There’s still two or three good cakes left,” he whispered, “and I’d say the kiss was worth toppling the others. Would ye agree?”

              She looked at the floor and licked cake crumbs from her fingers. “I’m nae so sure,” she teased. “The cake
is
vera delicious.”

              “I’ll ha’e to do better later,” he promised. As always, the heated way he looked at her, the dark topaz of his eyes, made her body ache with desire.

              They rejoined the others at the dais and people continued to approach them at the table to offer their congratulations. Toasts were made all night.

Isobel put her hand warmly on Sorcha’s arm. “Ye ken, when Leith rescued me that winter night, he didna bring me here to be his wife?”

              Sorcha turned to her. “Why did he come to ye that night? How did he ken ye would need help when he hadna e’er met ye before?”

              “The Sight is mysterious. It drew us together. He had a dream he couldna ignore. If he hadna acted…” Isobel shivered. “But he
did
act. The reason he sought me out, howe’er, was because he wanted me to use my gift to help him win battles and the hand of a lady whom he wished to be his wife.”

              Isobel now also had the attention of her dark-haired husband Leith.

              “Yer tired now, lass,” Isobel said. “I’ll tell ye the full story another day. The short version is, Leith fell in love with me instead, and I with him.”

Leith smiled at her, his eyes dark with a passion that had not dimmed over the years. “She stole my heart and it will ne’er belong to another as long as I live.”

“I look forward to hearing the full story,” Sorcha said. “An incredible and unusual tale of great love.”

“I hope ye and Malcolm will come to ken love and passion in yer own marriage,” Isobel said. “Ye dunna ken each other well yet, but love can spring up in the most unexpected of places. Mayhap yer marriage, decreed by a king all those years ago, was destiny.” She smiled sweetly and Sorcha blushed, avoiding Malcolm’s eyes.

A hush fell over the hall as a beautiful woman in a velvet dress approached the table. Her burgundy gown was threaded with silver trim and lacing on the front and expertly displayed her ample bosom and tiny waist. Her hair was glossy black and swept up fetchingly upon her head. Pearls and a large, round ruby adorned her throat. Her pale, slim fingers toyed with the ruby as she stared at Malcolm. “Congratulations on yer marriage, Malcolm,” she said, her brandy eyes seductive.

              “Thank ye, Maira.”

              She leaned low over the table and he nodded, his eyes falling briefly on the swell of her breasts. Sorcha felt an unexpected stab of jealousy. Who was this woman? Did Malcolm have lovers, and was Maira one of them? Malcolm was drawn into a conversation with Nathair, Leith, and Errol about recent cattle thefts and Maira turned her attention to Sorcha.

“Congratulations, Sorcha. I see yer admiring my gown.” A disdainful smiled played about her full lips.

              “’Tis a vera beautiful gown.”

              “The fabric was imported from Italy.” Maira shifted her gaze to Malcolm as he left the table to continue his discussion by the hearth. Her eyes raked his tall form with lust as he walked away. “I think yer husband likes it too. I was supposed to marry Malcolm in this dress.”

              Sorcha was surprised but managed to control her expression quickly.

              “Ye may leave us now,” Isobel said.

“But of course.” Maira sauntered away, gathering admiring male glances in her wake.

              “Pay her no mind,” Isobel said. “She is the youngest daughter of John Maclean of Lochbuie, a descendant of the first Lord of the Isles, and he didna ken what to do with her. She has a vera high opinion of herself, e’en considers herself to be some kind of royalty. A few years ago John wished to curb her scandalous behavior and married her to our Seamus Maclean, a much aulder man. He sits o’er there.”

Sorcha glanced across the room at Seamus, a portly man with thinning silver hair who dozed o’er his stewed pears. He appeared to have sauce on his face.

“If ye will excuse me, Lady Maclean, I think I will retire.”

“Call me Isobel, please.”

Sorcha nodded. “It has been a long day. I ha’e enjoyed meeting e’eryone and I thank ye for such a grand and warm welcome.” She gave Isobel’s hand a squeeze.

Malcolm was still deep in discussion with the men by the hearth but his eyes followed Sorcha as she left the hall.

Sorcha was exhausted. She wandered the stone corridor toward the room she shared with Malcolm. The sound of girlish humming piqued her curiosity. She climbed the stairs to another floor and encountered a chamber, door ajar. The chamber afforded light and airy views of the bens and sea beyond. An auld woman with a long, silver braid sat in a chair by the hearth. It was her humming Sorcha had heard.

              “Hello Sorcha,” she said. “I wondered when ye’d come along. I am Jenneth. I ha’e some terrible aches and pains in my bones and wasna able to leave my room to attend the wedding feast tonight. The pain comes and goes. Come in, dear.” She motioned with her hands and the bracelets and charms on her wrists tinkled sweetly.

              “I am sorry ye are nae feeling well,” Sorcha said.

              Slowly and with difficulty, Jenneth rose from her chair. There was something almost childlike about her despite her age. “I am sister to Lachlan, Leith’s father. Let me look at the lass who has stolen Malcolm’s heart. When were ye born?”

              Sorcha didn’t ken the exact day but knew she was born in spring. “I think it was the year 1450, during the spring.”

“I will consult my silver bracelets about yer birth.” Jenneth shook her arms and her fingers moved over the charms. “I got these from the gypsies. E’ery once in a while they appear on our hillsides selling their trinkets and wares and then they disappear like the haar.” Her eyes locked on the Viking pendant around Sorcha’s neck. “Ah,” she said. “I see ye wear the Highlander’s love pendant. ‘Tis a strong stone, to be sure. It belonged to Isobel. There is magic in that stone.” Sorcha blushed at the woman’s words.

              “Malcolm is a good man,” Jenneth said, as if she expected Sorcha to deny it. Jenneth was a fiercely proud woman. “He offered to carry me downstairs so I could attend the celebration this night but I wouldna let him. I didna wish to be a burden.”

              Jenneth grabbed Sorcha’s hand and looked into her eyes, her grip claw-like. “Och, I see great loss in yer past…but great strength in yer future...and magic. A day will come when ye must believe in magic. It will be one of the most difficult things ye’ll e’er do.”

              Jenneth dropped her hand just as suddenly and showed her a tapestry that was partially completed. There was the black rock and the Maclean castle, which sat proudly upon it; the looming bens beyond; the sea; and several of the Macleans themselves. It was quite good. Sorcha recognized Malcolm immediately; he sat atop a black horse in a commanding way.

              “Yer tapestry is quite beautiful,” Sorcha said.

              Jenneth pursed her lips, deep in thought. “I grew up in this castle. I ken its secrets. When I was a wee lass, I played hide and seek in these stone halls. I used to hide under people’s beds but it was hot under the beds and sometimes people forgot I was there. Ye can imagine the things I heard!

“Do ye ken some rooms ha’e laird’s ears hidden in the walls and ye can secretly listen to what’s being said downstairs in the great hall? Yer room has one. It used to be Logan’s room. Logan was Leith’s twin brother.” She cocked her head as if she could hear the long ago echo of running feet and whispered secrets. “But where shall I put ye in the tapestry, Sorcha? What part will ye play in Maclean history, lass?”

Jenneth’s wrinkled fingers caressed the threads of the tapestry. She pointed out a few shadowy ancestors she’d sewn into the tapestry, a pair of clashing swords, even the Witches of Mull. “The witches must always be appeased,” she said. “I sewed the ancestors in and I will sew in the new babes.” She looked at Sorcha slyly and Sorcha felt her face color.

“The ones who love ye near the end of yer life when yer auld and wrinkled and grey are just as important as the ones who love ye at the vera beginning, when yer shiny and new.” She shifted the charms on her bracelets once more.

              Sorcha was beginning to feel uncomfortable in Jenneth’s presence.

              “There’s fire in ye, lass. Ye ha’e fought many battles.” A strange look came over her girlish face. “Hold tight to what ye ha’e battled for and let go of yer fear and doubt. Believe in the magic.”

              “It was nice to meet ye, Jenneth. I’m vera tired now and will retire to my room.”

              Jenneth nodded and picked up a mirror. Her image swam in its silver surface, her blue eyes like twin mist-covered lochs. Sorcha left the room quietly. It was late when Malcolm came to bed.

              In the afternoon, Malcolm took her to see the Maclean lands and the village with the black huts coated in soot from the hearth fires. He brought her to the chapel where Leith’s mother and father, and Logan, Leith’s twin, were buried.

              Next he took her to a wide field set up with archery bunts. “Ye can practice yer shooting here,” he said. “I ken it brings ye pleasure.”

She smiled. “Thank ye, Malcolm. Are ye thinking ye’d like another contest?”

              “Och, nay, lass. Ne’er that. One thorough trouncing was enough.”