Highland Thunder (Isle of Mull Series) (3 page)

Brenna sighed; she and Anna could not be more different.

Brenna was nearly ten years Anna’s senior, but it was not only age that separated them.
Anna enjoyed something, which Brenna had been denied: a childhood. Brenna’s mother died birthing her sister when Brenna was eight. As the eldest, the care of her two brothers and newborn sister had fallen to her. She held tight to the memories of her beloved mother and did her best to show her younger siblings the same love and understanding her mother had always shown her.

The weight of her duties had silenced the fanciful stirrings of her mind and heart. Gone were the days of racing after her brothers over the moors in search of adventure. She had begun to regard such things as nonsense afforded only to children despite being a child herself. As she grew, Brenna strove to be prudent above all else. She nursed her siblings through fevers; she cooked and cleaned and kept the hearth fire warm for her father’s return from a long day of fishing the waters off Skye.

He would crack the door open and creep inside, careful not to wake the wee ones.

Then he would give Brenna a wink and a basket of fresh fish to clean, and he would always ask, “Have you waited to sup with me?”

“Aye, Da,” she would respond, but scold him into washing before she brought the plates. “You twinkle like the night sky covered in scales like you are.”

She had loved their suppers together. His copper curls would always dip into the stew, making her laugh. He would smile and shrug, saying his hair was mostly salt, and he always enjoyed the extra flavor.

They spoke of the children and the happenings in the village—births, deaths, marriages. When she was older, she remembered asking her da why he had never wed again. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“My honest answer, lass, is because I have you. I hope you do not hate me for being selfish. I ken you were forced into womanhood too soon. But you’ve always been so adept at running the home and seeing to the wee ones, I never felt the need.”

“But what about you, Da. Do you not miss having a wife?” she asked.

“Brenna, my sweet lass, my heart is still full of your mother,” he said with his hand on his chest. “No room for anyone else in here. You ken?”

“Aye, Da.”

“You make me very proud, Brenna. You will make a man very happy one day.”

She beamed at his praise but thought little about the prospect of marriage. It was something in the distant future, and she had no time for daydreams.

Eventually, her body matured to match her mind, and she became a woman grown. She was respected among the women in her village. Many sought her shrewd advice, and one could always count on her remaining calm in the midst of crisis. Her composure never wavered, not even when the warriors from Mull came to the village, and her father introduced her to Ewan MacKinnon whom he chose as her husband.

It was her duty to wed. She trusted her father’s judgment. Ewan struck her as a kind sort of man. That was all she needed to know. She accepted the betrothal without hesitation and strove from that day on to be as good a wife as she had been sister and mother to her siblings and daughter to her father.

“You are pensive today,” Anna chimed in, interrupting Brenna’s thoughts. Anna’s silver eyes, so like her mother’s, studied Brenna with interest.

Anna was Brenna’s favorite among the chieftain’s daughters. Their eldest daughter, Tira, married Brenna’s cousin and lived on Skye. Not having any sons themselves, the chieftain and his lady awaited the coming of Tira’s son, Logan, who would one day be laird. The next two daughters, Isobel and Fiona, were bright, spirited women and lived on Mull with families of their own, but Anna was different from the rest. She took after her mother.

Anna and Bridget were perplexing creatures with a trace of the fey about them. Although it was rare that Brenna did not know her own heart, often Anna saw past Brenna’s words to a hidden truth. Disarming was the only way to describe the experience. Brenna felt stripped bare and vulnerable. Anna would smile at her discomfort and tell Brenna that the world was full of mystery and magic, and everyone needed to be reminded of this from time to time. Anna would say this with the hope of putting Brenna at ease, but her strange logic served only to add to Brenna’s disquiet. Brenna’s thoughts had little room for mystery or magic. Still, together they always managed to make sense of why Brenna’s heart and mind had not been in accord.

It was not that Brenna discredited the existence of magic all together. One mystery gripped her soul like no other. It was a passion she shared with no one. The fierce storms that tore across the moors, igniting the night with fiery lightning, awakened her senses like nothing else could. They were her secret delight. She could sense a storm coming long before the thickening of the air or the smell of it came rolling in from the sea. She knew a storm approached before the clouds’ announcement. In complete opposition to her normal soberness, Brenna rushed into the heart of a storm, no matter how severe and reveled in the pelting rain, the force of the wind, and most of all, the pounding thunder. Thunder unraveled her core, releasing her emotions from their place of constraint, emboldening Brenna with vitality and longing.

Thunder was magic.

“Brenna, you can hardly expect me to wait much longer. Will you not tell me the tale?” Anna beseeched, once again releasing Brenna from her thoughts.

Brenna groaned, “I’ve told you twice already today, and we’ve only just enjoyed the midday meal.”

“I will not you ask again,” her dear friend promised but then added with a mischievous grin, “today.”

It was no easy task to deny Anna any request. Brenna soon realized this when she first met the lass seven years ago after arriving on Mull as Ewan’s wife. Anna’s sincerity won Brenna over straightaway, and despite their age difference and other incompatibilities, they had been friends from the start.

Brenna sighed, “Very well.”

Her husband, Ewan, along with half a dozen MacKinnon warriors including Anna’s young husband, Cormac, had embarked on a journey to Berwick upon Tweed some weeks ago. Ewan had made the same trek three summers past and had regaled Brenna for days with descriptions of the bustling
market town.

After their men left, Anna, who had started taking her meals with Brenna, sat in rapture, listening to tales of the great city. The passing of time had not dulled her delight nor silenced her requests to hear more. Not a day passed that Anna did not ask Brenna to tell her the tale.

Brenna always began in the same way…

“Imagine, if you would, cobbled streets weaving in and around never-ending clusters of stone homes—some towering five stories above the ground. There are no trees or fields, only churches, shops, and homes packed together. Animals and people crowd the streets and alleyways. You must push through the throng, often times choking on the smell of waste both human and animal. The din is continuous and ever changing between the call of local merchants, children at play, the labor of continuous construction and repair, the cry of beggars and those seeking to enlighten minds.”

“But none of this will prepare the country visitor for the market,” Anna quickly interjected, knowing what Brenna would say next.

Brenna smiled, “Would you care to tell the tale? By my troth, I believe you’d tell it better than I.”

“Nay, Brenna. Your words and voice lift me through the air and fly me over the leagues separating Gribun from Berwick, and suddenly, I am there.” Anna sighed.

Brenna chuckled as she stood up from the table with the meat of several herring just filleted. “May the Blessed Lord teach you to keep your feet on solid ground, Anna.”

“Brenna, you ken the market is my favorite part,” Anna said.

“Aye, Anna. How could I forget?” Brenna laughed. “I will carry on, but you must pay heed to tasks at hand. I asked you to add that leftover barley to the pottage, and there it sits still in the bowl.”

Anna blushed and hurried over to the simmering pot to pour the extra grain into the stew. Then she returned and began shaping dough into cakes.

Brenna cleared her throat. “Every week a market is held in the large city square. Stalls are assembled in rows, filling the square to the point of bursting. Each one is equipped with wares and a merchant crying out in promotion of his goods. The guilds are all represented: bakers, butchers, grocers, millers, smiths, and weavers, and there are stalls with every sort of fish catchable in the sea: salmon, herring, and eels—fresh, smoked and salted.”

“Aye, Brenna. But the fabric. Skip to the part about the fabric.” Anna pleaded as she leaned forward in her seat, the bannock dough in front of her forgotten.

“Aye, Anna, I shall. Although I do not mind telling you, I do not ken your fascination. Now, where was I?”

“Begin with the Flemish wool,” Anna said eagerly.

“Flemish woolens to be sure are fine and soft, but ‘tis because they are made from good Scottish wool—do not forget that, Anna.” Brenna coated the herring in crushed barley then set the pieces sizzling in a pan of hot fat before she continued. “The foreign merchants arrive by guarded caravan, selling tapestries, spices, carpets, and, of course, beautiful fabrics.”

Brenna smiled as Anna closed her eyes and held her breath while she waited for her favorite part of the tale.

“The silks are soft and fluid like fresh milk. Sheer gauze as delicate as a spider’s web waits to be made into wimples for fine ladies. Ropes of braid and furs—ermine, mink, and sable—are purchased to adorn cloaks and costly kirtles. Fabrics are draped and hung, catching the sunlight like a bower of color: blue, scarlet, bright yellows, black, greens, and shimmering gold.”

Anna sighed, “How I do love silk and braid and mink.”

“Anna, you’ve never seen silk, braid, or mink. How do you know if you love them?” Brenna said.

“Oh, but I have seen them,” Anna insisted.

“Where?” Brenna asked, incredulously.

“In my dreams,” Anna laughed.

“You spend too much time daydreaming when there is work to be done.” Brenna chided as she pointed to Anna’s idle hands.

Anna apologized and snatched up the dough to finish the cakes. Brenna leaned over the table and pressed a kiss to her friend’s cheek.

“Anna, you are a woman now, and a fine one, I might add.” Anna smiled at the praise. “But ‘tis time you leave off such childish whimsies. Life is not always predictable or fair. You must keep your feet firmly planted on the ground to ward off misfortune. Build your strength, sweet one.”

“Aye, Brenna. I know ‘tis true what you say. I am a woman grown, and with the blessing of God and the return of my husband, I will soon be a mother with a babe of my own to care for.”

“If a babe is what you are after, I found one,” a voice called from the door. Both Brenna and Anna turned about in time to see a curly black-haired cherub rush through the doorway with arms outstretched.

Brenna’s heart leapt at the sight of her. “Nellore, my sweet lass,” she said as she squatted with arms wide. Nellore squealed with childish delight as she fell into Brenna’s arms. Holding Nellore’s soft, tiny form and smelling the sweetness of her skin, filled Brenna with a love the likes of which she had never imagined and never dreamed would be hers. She understood, perhaps more than most, the gift of motherhood.

For the first six years of their marriage, she and Ewan tried for a baby, but every month her cycle would begin. Brenna, never one to despair, had resolved herself to a life without children and asked Bridget to train her in the art of healing, thus providing her with new purpose. She hoped being a midwife could help fill the void her barren womb had left, but, in the end, this was not to be her fate. Her destiny was tied to Nellore.

Brenna showered her daughter with kisses. Then she turned to the woman in the doorway. “Bridget, do come in and sit for a spell. I have fried herring, and if your daughter would fly down from the clouds for a moment or two, we might have some bannock as well.”

“Anna, quit your daydreaming,” Bridget scolded but then kissed her daughter’s cheek. “I cannot stay. I must return to the keep. I’m doing an inventory of the herb cupboard. The moon will be full soon, and with so many women ripe with child in the village, I do not wish to be unprepared if they all decide to have at it together.”

Nellore stretched her arms out to Bridget who turned from the doorway. “I suppose that can wait for a few minutes more,” she said as she embraced the wee lass.

The chieftain’s lady smiled at Brenna, and once again Brenna was struck by the lady’s goodness. Brenna admired no one more, and she owed her happiness to Bridget. As she gazed at Nellore nestled in Bridget’s arms, she was reminded of that fateful day when Nellore first became hers.

She and Ewan had retired after a long day’s cleaning of the animal pens, but a fierce storm denied her rest. The spirit of the weather ignited a fire within her that sense and reason usually kept to a well-controlled flame. Thunder boomed its mighty fists upon the sodden earth, beckoning to her. She wrapped a wool blanket around her shoulders and stepped out into the night just as a bolt of lightning hurtled across the night sky, illuminating the ever-shifting and pulsing storm clouds.

A surge of excitement coursed through her as she felt the vulnerable wonder that comes when faced with raw power. Each crash of thunder and fiery streak of lightning challenged her need for order and sensibility.