Kilted at the Altar (Clash of the Tartans Book 2) Page 4

  He was gone, trudging back to the boat before she could thank him for bringing her safely across what could be an unpredictable stretch of water.

  She turned hesitantly, surprised to discover the driver was a gaunt, grey-haired, auld woman.

  “Fanny,” the crone said hoarsely, flicking the reins to set the horse in motion. “Third cousin once removed from Boyd and yer mam. Ye look like her. Same long, dark hair. Great loss. Yon dog’s a funny color.”

  “Aye,” Isabel conceded, gripping the rough wooden seat. “His real name is Danmhairgis, but we call him Blue.”

  “Right enough,” the woman cackled as the cart lurched over the uneven terrain.

  Isabel hung on nervously as they passed Tur Chliamainn.

  “Final resting place o’ the MacRain chiefs,” her relative explained.

  “Aye,” she acknowledged, “I was here years ago.”

  “I recall,” Fanny replied. “With yer da.”

  Evidently, they had met before, but she had no memory of it. “I’m sorry, I dinna remember…”

  “Wheest, ye were a bairn, and yer father ne’er did have much time for yer mam’s family.” She sniffed the air. “Too high and mighty.”

  Isabel wondered if her distant relative had met Ghalla, but decided against mentioning her stepmother.

  “Ye’ll be safe from the Nellis woman here,” Fanny declared with great conviction.

  For the first time since the meeting with her uncle on the cliffs, a glimmer of hope sparked in Isabel’s breast.

  *

  Darroch had known many a seasoned sailor turn green and cast up his accounts during the crossing to Ywst. Even on a sunny day, the wind could whip the Little Minch into a seething salty cauldron.

  He never worried about the seaworthiness of his sturdy birlinn galleys and the seamanship of his crews. Apparently, Kyla shared his confidence. She perched atop his shoulders, her little hands clutching his chin, and laughed as the wind filled the sails and spray soaked them through. He’d wrapped her in a woolen plaid, but she seemed impervious to the cold.

  “Ye’re a born sailor, lass,” he shouted.

  She pressed her fingers into the stubble of his beard in response.

  “Loch nam Madadh sighted,” his captain yelled.

  Darroch acknowledged Grig’s announcement with a loud Aye. The loyal clansman had plied these waters for nigh on thirty years.

  Kyla started to bounce excitedly, drawing his attention to dolphins swimming alongside the galley.

  “Dolphins,” he told her, hoping she might repeat the name, but she simply continued to ride up and down in rhythm with the leaping sea creatures.

  “Do ye see the rocks in the harbor?” he asked, pointing to the outcroppings in the channel where they were more sheltered from the wind. “They look like dogs. That’s why it’s called the Harbor of the Dogs.”

  She stopped bouncing but made no reply. He hoped she understood as she stared at the rocks guarding the approach to Loch nam Madadh.

  He was glad of the cloudless sky. There was no more beautiful place than Ywst’s watery landscape glowing golden brown in the sunshine. Even the mountains of Harris were clearly visible on the horizon.

  He wouldn’t be taking Kyla with him to Harris. His purpose there was to seek revenge for the insult perpetrated by Isabel MacRain. If there was a way to get his hands on the woman and howl his fury at her, he would. But she was safe in Dungavin, out of his reach. The usual retribution of burning a few MacRain crofts and stealing sheep would have to suffice—for now.

  Grig brought the Banamhara safely to the dock and the Lanmara soon pulled up alongside. Satisfied his men knew enough to lash the two vessels together securely, he lifted Kyla over the side into Grig’s waiting arms. She was, at first, reluctant to let go and reached for him once he was on land.

  He hoisted her back onto his shoulders and they set off to walk the short distance to Grig’s cottage. Conflicting emotions swirled in his heart. His father’s rejection of Kyla sat like a lead weight in his gut; the desire for vengeance simmered. Yet Ywst’s calming magic was already seeping into his veins, as it did every time he came to the island. Would the ancient spirits that dwelt in the mystical lochs and mountains of the Hebrides free Kyla’s tongue?

  *

  Fanny’s croft on Harris wasn’t far from the harbor, but it seemed to take an eternity for the old horse and cart to negotiate the terrain. They lurched over rock, skirted bogs and slipped on wet grass. Even Blue picked his way cautiously in the cart’s wake, shaking off the drizzle from time to time.

  Isabel gave up hope of her riding habit surviving the trek. The rough wood of the seat pinched her bottom, even through the costly velvet that was already streaked with muck. She regretted glancing back at the bed of the cart. Smears of animal dung and wisps of wool caught on the rough wood left no doubt as to what the conveyance transported. She pinched her nose to settle the nausea roiling in her belly.

  They passed a handful of crofters’ cottages, then came at last to one that looked more like a rocky outcropping than a dwelling. A thatched roof shrouded a squat dwelling. It hardly seemed large enough for a person to stand upright inside. Only on closer inspection did it become evident the croft was man-made of grey dry-stone walls packed with earth. The brown straw thatch had borne the brunt of many a storm. Stone slabs placed haphazardly here and there weighted it down against the buffeting of the persistent wind.

  “Still keeps out the rain,” Fanny muttered, as if sensing Isabel’s thoughts. “Wet sheep reek to high heaven.”

  Isabel’s confusion lasted only until she stepped inside the humble abode. Narrow stone steps led down into the living space which had been dug out of the earth. She held on to the rough walls as she took one uneven step at a time, peering through a thin pall of smoke. At the far end of the dwelling, she made out a planked half-wall that separated off another area. The bleating and the stench of dung could only be coming from sheep on the other side of the makeshift partition that looked more like a fence than a wall. Barking loudly, Blue loped towards the enclosure.

  Isabel patted her thighs and called him back. He obeyed reluctantly and slumped down at the foot of the steps with a weary groan. She knew how he felt.

  “Ye’ll get used to the woolly beasts,” Fanny reassured her. “They keep a place warm. Stand by the fire while I get ye some proper clothes.”

  Fearing she was trapped in a nightmare, Isabel trudged across the packed dirt floor to the stone hearth in the center of what appeared to be the only habitable room. She held her hands to the warmth of the peat fire. A blackened kettle hovered over the flames, suspended by a series of metal loops. When her gaze wandered the length of the chain to the rafters, she wrinkled her nose at the sight of fish hung to dry and suddenly understood the reason for the smoke in the air. “There’s no chimney,” she murmured.

  “Aye, the smoke eventually works its way out,” Fanny explained.

  “That’s why the walls are black,” Isabel replied, immediately wishing she hadn’t sounded critical.

  Fanny looked around her home as if noticing the blackened whitewash for the first time. With a shrug, she motioned Isabel to sit on a three-legged stool, then eyed the muffin hat. “Yon bonnet has no ties. How do ye keep it on yer head?”

  Isabel reached up, pulled out the hatpin then yanked off the hat with a flourish. She sifted her fingers through her long hair, glad to be free of the tight band around her forehead and the last of the braid.

  Eyes wide, Fanny took the pin and examined it as if it were some holy relic. “Fancy that,” she whispered.

  Isabel stifled the urge to reply that women in ancient China had used hatpins centuries before the birth of Our Lord.

  The fire’s glow began to chase away the chill of the voyage and the uncertainty of the future, but steam rose from her damp clothing.

  “Let’s get ye out o’ them togs afore ye catch a fever,” Fanny advised. “We dinna want the sheep ailing.”

&nb
sp; Isabel hesitated. She understood the importance of livestock to a crofter, but there was apparently no privacy to be had for humans in the dwelling.

  “Dinna fash,” Fanny said. “Sheep dinna ken if ye have clothes or nay. I’ll fetch a shift and a nice warm plaid. We’ll dry yon bonnet. Might rain later.”

  “I’ll need help getting my boots off,” Isabel said reluctantly, lifting the hem of her skirt.

  Fanny snorted. “Saints alive. I ne’er saw such footwear.”

  Isabel half-expected her to refuse to help, but the auld woman straddled each leg in turn and heaved and puffed and swore until the boots were tossed to one side.

  Muttering under her breath, she wandered off to rummage in a small cupboard built into the wall.

  Isabel peeled off her clothing, then felt chilled. Hugging herself, she took the opportunity to look around. Two or three precarious shelves loaded with dusty brown bottles clung to one wall. Dried herbs hung from every nook and cranny, their aromas not unpleasant. A spinning wheel sat in a corner. The frame of a huge weaving loom dominated a large portion of the small dwelling. To Isabel’s untrained eye, it looked like a complicated conglomeration of pedals, frames and long strands of wool. Taller than she was, it dwarfed the box built onto its side, apparently to provide a wee bit of privacy for the only bed in the house. The cubbyhole seem to float in mid-air. Climbing into it would be something of a challenge.

  A niggling doubt crept into her mind. Did her relative expect they would share a bed?

  “Ye can sleep there,” Fanny declared, handing her a shift and making no effort to hide her perusal of Isabel’s nakedness. “I’ll kip by the fire.”

  A shiver raced up Isabel’s spine. It was uncanny how the woman seemed to know her thoughts. “You live here alone?” she asked, pulling the garment over her head, surprised by the fine quality of the linen.

  “Aye.”

  Since no more information seemed to be forthcoming, Isabel said, “’Tis good o’ ye to give me shelter.”

  Fanny shrugged. “That’s what kin do. I’ll teach ye to spin and weave so ye can make yerself useful. Besides helping with the sheep, o’ course. I’m off to return the horse and cart.”

  Isabel frowned. “It doesna belong to ye?”

  “Nay.”

  Without further explanation, the auld woman left Isabel alone and feeling isolated.

  Storm Clouds

  Two days of stormy weather forced Darroch to postpone his invasion of Harris. He fumed with impatience, but enjoyed spending time with his daughter nonetheless.

  They took advantage of the brief periods between downpours to practice hitting targets on the beach with their shepherd’s slings. When she was a toddler, he’d shown off his prowess in an effort to get her to talk. Instead, she’d let him know with grunts and gestures that she wanted to learn how to hurl rocks with the simple but effective weapon every islander carried. Even on Skye, wherever sheep and cattle grazed, wolves and lynx were never far away.

  He’d fashioned a small sling and she’d developed a surprisingly good aim for a bairn—a lass at that. Her obvious glee as she whirled the device over her head like a miniature warrior inspired hope that one day she’d blurt out words without thinking.

  The stone cottage he maintained on Ywst was small and rustic—a far cry from the apartments on Skye. Yet he sensed Kyla’s contentment there, bringing home to him how unsafe she felt in her grandfather’s castle. She seemed more at ease with Grig and his wife. Tilly brought food for them. The woman had happily provided articles of her grandsons’ clothing for Kyla. The generous spirit of the islanders humbled Darroch. They lived harsh, some might say impoverished lives in a difficult land, but were always willing to share what they had.

  On the second day, he left Kyla in Grig’s croft while he and his captain checked the moorings and made sure everything was still ship-shape. He returned to find her enthralled, sitting by the loom, watching Tilly weave, nodding her head in time with the clickety-clack of the pedals.

  “Has she spoken?” he whispered.

  “Nay, but she keeps tapping my arm. Wants to have a go.”

  Darroch would one day be the chief of her clan, but this was Tilly’s domain. “Will ye allow it?”

  “Aye. But she must learn patience first or she canna be a weaver. Mayhap while ye’re away on Harris.”

  When Kyla turned tear-filled eyes on him, he gathered her into his arms. “Only for a day, then I’ll be back,” he promised.

  On the return walk to his cottage, she raced ahead, jumping in puddles. “Ye’re more like a lad than a lass,” he teased, his voice rendered husky by the love constricting his throat.

  She grinned, her delight made all the more poignant by the gap where two front teeth were missing. For a fleeting moment he thought how peaceful life could be if he and his daughter lived on Ywst, far from his father’s grasp and the responsibility of being heir to the chieftaincy.

  However, a chief had to marry and his little lass needed a mother. Isabel MacRain had snatched away their hopes. The inevitable journey to Harris loomed like the storm clouds overhead, but the treachery had to be avenged.

  *

  After two days of incessant rain and blustery winds, Isabel got used to the bleating, but couldn’t seem to avoid feeling nauseous every time she inhaled near the woolly creatures. Fanny had spoken true. Wet sheep stank—even more than dry sheep.

  Watching them when they were set loose to graze, she came to the conclusion they were daft beasts who would blindly follow the dominant ewe over the side of a cliff. However, Fanny’s dog controlled them seemingly without effort. The sheepdog appeared as if from nowhere the morning after Isabel’s arrival, much to Blue’s delight.

  Fanny informed her the dog answered to Cù. “He’s nay a pet,” she insisted. “He must work for his keep, like everyone else.”

  Isabel supposed the name Dog made as much sense as Blue’s nickname. Cù helped corral Fanny’s flock of twenty Dunface sheep, and Isabel understood the thinly veiled hint about earning her keep. However, she had no experience with animal husbandry and could only hope she’d be a quick study when it came to learning to weave. Sewing and embroidery were loathsome tasks, but she acknowledged she wouldn’t last long in this remote place without her cousin’s help. She blamed her fate on the feckless Darroch MacKeegan, but resolved to do what she could to repay Fanny.

  Her relative seemed not to realize the fine quality of the homespun plaid she offered, apologizing that it wasn’t fit for a chief’s daughter, and refused to believe it was softer than any Isabel owned.

  Despite the challenges, Isabel found herself laughing uncontrollably at Blue’s attempts to corral sheep and Cù’s growling annoyance when the animals fled from the ungainly blue creature yapping at their heels.

  The croft lacked all the modern comforts of Dungavin. There was no escape from the noisy loom when Fanny was weaving. The privy was outdoors. Water came from a rusted and often unreliable pump. The smoky haze never really cleared entirely. Yet Isabel came to feel safe tucked up in the wee box-bed surrounded by blackened walls, and Fanny’s oatmeal was the best she had ever eaten.

  *

  Grig finally declared the weather and the tide favorable for an evening landing on Harris.

  Darroch carried Kyla to Tilly’s croft, glad she had fallen asleep. He kissed her forehead and nestled her onto the pallet Tilly had made up. It was cowardly to leave her without a proper goodbye, but he knew she’d be safe with Grig’s wife. He’d be back before she realized he was gone.

  They set sail at dusk in four ships—the two large birlinns brought from Skye and two smaller galleys that were kept on Ywst. With fewer crew aboard each vessel, there’d be room for the rustled sheep.

  The new moon provided scant light, but it was a cloudless night and they had no difficulty rowing the little armada across the short stretch of water between Ywst and Obbe on Harris.

  They anchored close to shore. Dinghies ferried men and four sheepdog
s to the beach. Running in wet boots was nigh on impossible in the uncertain terrain and would doom the raid to failure. They made scarcely a sound, aware that voices carried far over water.

  Darroch scanned the dark hills beyond the shoreline. “I dinna see campfires,” he whispered to Grig. “Hopefully, that means no lookouts.”

  His captain chuckled. “With luck we’ll be back on Ywst with a boatload of sheep before they ken we’ve dropped in.”

  “Aye,” Darroch agreed as he jumped from the dinghy, ready to give final instructions. “There’s roughly ten crofts between here and Roghadal. Ye’ve been split into four teams, each with a dog, and ye ken who’s to raid close to Obbe and who’s to come with me as far as Tur Chliamainn.”

  The men muttered their acknowledgement of what he expected, their eyes shining eerily in the light of the torches a few held high.

  “The goal is to cause confusion and steal sheep. Set fires in only one or two crofts once we’ve secured the livestock, then they’ll be distracted fighting the flames. No need to take a life unless it becomes absolutely necessary. These crofters are nay responsible for the insult to our clan. ’Tis just their misfortune to dwell on Rory MacRain’s lands.”

  He didn’t need to mention what his men already knew. Murder was more likely to result in reprisal raids against Ywst, and every last one of them was aware that if you stole a man’s sheep and burned his home and his loom, his family might well starve.

  The Raid

  Blue was the first to sense something was amiss. He scratched frantically at the door, whining loudly enough to wake Isabel. She sat up in bed, trying to get her bearings in the dark, alarmed by distant shouts and dogs barking.

  “Is it wolves?” she asked.

  “’Tis a raid,” Fanny shouted. “Hide ’neath the loom.”

  Isabel could scarcely breathe as she slid out of the box. She’d lived her life within the safe stronghold at Dungavin. “A raid?”