Chapter Three
The salt spray had dried to a crust on Cullen’s clothes.
His hair was stiff with it. As the spring sun sent pale fingers of light through the inn’s small windows, he picked grains of sand out of his fingernails.
A lass was singing a song to a man she was trying to seduce, sitting on his lap and sliding her fingers through his hair.
Her affection was for sale, and soon enough, she hooked him, leading him away to the back room, and her song faded away.
A shame, for she had a nightingale’s voice – sweet, high and soft. It had calmed his spirits.
Exhaustion lay heavy on Cullen as he let the whisky in his belly steady his racing heart and ease the pain from aching muscles.
By God, that had been a rough crossing, and offloading contraband cargo in small boats in the chop had taken its toll.
The rocks on either side of the drop point at Midge Beach were unforgiving.
Fools who didn’t navigate the narrow channel carefully often came to grief on their jagged teeth.
They hadn’t had much time to stow the stuff, as the risk of discovery by excise men or other kinds of villains grew steadily as night marched towards dawn.
He should take less risk, but that meant less reward, and every coin in his pocket brought him closer to freedom.
The tavern door swung open, bringing with it an icy blast of wind, the briny tang of seaweed and a muscular fellow with a stare that could cut through flesh. Folk scuttled aside as he made his way over to Cullen.
‘Well met, Macaulay,’ said Heap, so-called because he was a mountain of muscle, well over six feet and wide-shouldered as a bull.
‘Is it?’ said Cullen. ‘I scarce made the crossing in one piece.’
Heap took a stool opposite and held out his hands to warm them before the fire. They were as broad as spades, and the knuckles were split in places. Cullen wondered whose face had caused that to happen.
‘Losing your nerve, Macaulay?’ The man leant in. ‘Our cargo. Is it secure?’
Now came the dangerous part. ‘It is my cargo until we agree on a price,’ said Cullen steadily.
‘It was already agreed.’
‘It was a rougher crossing than expected. The price has gone up.’
The man spat into the flames. ‘He won’t like it.’
‘Then he should have come himself to negotiate. Why didn’t he?’
‘Not your business.’
‘Fair enough.’ Cullen leant in. ‘Let’s talk then.’
They haggled for a while until they agreed on a price, as Cullen knew they would. He was sailing close to the wind, squeezing more money out of a ruthless man, but it was worth it.
Heap stood up. ‘I must take my leave. Oh, I almost forgot. I bear a message from your father.’
‘Since when did you run errands for my father? I thought you hadn’t spoken in a while.’
‘We do each other a service now and again.’ His smile was smug, a sure sign Heap knew something Cullen did not, and to his detriment. ‘My message is this. Griffin says you must return to Scarcross as soon as may be. He is in need of your services.’
‘What does he want?’
‘I neither know nor care, but it can’t be anything to your advantage.
And now that you’ve cheated my master out of extra coin, perhaps it is best to make yourself scarce.
So, my greedy friend, you should finish your whisky and tup whatever whore takes your fancy, and get passage back to Scotland as soon as may be.
It’s a lonely passage home with Lucifer at your back and a cold welcome awaiting you at Scarcross. ’
As it ever was. Cullen quaffed a cup of whisky, but its burn soured his gut.
He glared into the fire and cursed his father, his Macaulay name and the reckless streak that dogged his character.
Then he headed outside. Wind blustered, snatching his breath from his lungs.
Cullen stared at the vast churning grey of the sea stretching back to Scotland and cursed his bad luck.
***
A rough crossing and a two-day ride brought Cullen to Scarcross at dusk.
The grey stone tower house lurked near a crossroads, but was set well back, surrounded by thick, dark woods.
Boasting little beauty, it had mean little windows set high and a small doorway that forced a man to stoop to get through it.
The house squatted on a hill, and water ran in silty rivulets down the track leading up to it, overhung with trees and pock-marked with puddles and troughs.
It had never been a welcoming sight, but then, the Macaulays were not a clan known for their hospitality, being more likely to throw unannounced visitors onto the fire than to offer them its warmth.
His mother had died within Scarcross, in miserable circumstances, and every homecoming was bleaker than the last.
Cullen kicked his horse forward and shivered into his jacket as sleet blew in, turning Scarcross’ black slate roof slick, and sending water gurgling from its leaky gutters.
One of his father’s men stood outside the furthest outbuilding.
He had not taken shelter from the weather, so he must be standing guard over the void below it. Cullen’s ears pricked for danger.
As he rode through the collection of ramshackle dwellings scattered around the place, folk peered out of their doorways, mouths falling open in shock or disapproval.
He got a few wry smiles from a friend or two, but though he had been gone for two years, it seemed that the memory of his many transgressions still lingered.
The thick studded doorway to Scarcross was barred, so Cullen banged on it, hard. A grill opened, and beady eyes peered out.
‘What foul tide washed you up, Cullen?’ said Allard Macaulay.
‘What kind of welcome is this, brother?’ he replied cheerily, for that was bound to stoke the bastard’s ire.
‘Half-brother, and you’ll get no welcome from me,’ sneered Allard. There was a screech as the bolt was pulled back, and Cullen entered the dark bowels of the house.
Allard had not changed. Griffin Macaulay’s firstborn son had broadened somewhat, his shoulders bulky with muscle, black beard cropped close, and lines etched into his face from perpetually scowling.
He was the same joyless oaf at twenty-seven as he had been two years ago - ever quick to anger and slow to wit.
Every time he laid eyes on him, Cullen could not believe the same blood ran in their veins.
‘Where is my father?’
‘Taking his ease in the east tower.’
It was the highest and most impregnable part of Scarcross. ‘What is he hiding from now?’
Allard put his face into Cullen’s. ‘Go up and find out.’
Cullen pushed past him and made his way up several flights of stairs to the east tower. It jutted out of the side of the house like an ugly boil on a face, and gave a wide-ranging view of the countryside over the tops of the trees. His father was staring intently out the window.
‘Expecting visitors, Father?’ said Cullen.
Griffin Macaulay jumped in alarm and glowered. ‘You should announce yourself, not creep in like a footpad.’
‘I am a footpad.’
‘You are better than that, or you could be, if you would only raise yourself.’
Cullen groaned inwardly. Nothing ever eased his father’s disappointment in his youngest son. ‘I am what you made me,’ snapped Cullen.
Griffin’s eyes rolled over him. ‘You filled out a bit, lad. Grew some balls and muscle, by the look of you.’
‘Aye, I’ve changed. But then, it’s been two years since I was accorded the honour of a visit.’
‘Still the insolent mouth, I see. How fares our sea trade?’
‘Risky as ever.’
There was no asking after his good health, well-being or happiness. But why did he expect anything more? Wearily, Cullen said, ‘Why the haste in summoning me?’
Griffin’s jaw worked. ‘I have taken steps against an enemy, which might draw danger onto Clan Macaulay.’
‘Which enemy?’
‘Peyton Strachan.’
‘Christ save us! What possessed you to do that?’ said Cullen, shaking his head. ‘He’s a scrapper, that one.’
‘The fiend insulted me. He refused to take a Macaulay bride and went off and married some slut instead. We had a bargain. He was promised to our Catherine, and he broke it off, so I took something from him in compensation.’
‘Strachan is a beat dog, barely clinging onto his clan. They do not esteem him as a laird. Not much of a loss. I don’t see the dilemma.’
‘You’ve been in Ireland a while, and life has moved on. That Strachan bastard has risen to become a big man in the West March. He now has an iron hold on his clan and an alliance with the Glendennings and Bannermans. There’s plenty of life in that beat dog now.’
‘Ah, hence you cowering in your tower.’ Cullen shrugged. ‘So, he has formidable allies, but this devilish union will not last. The Glendennings and Bannermans will go back to stealing off the Strachans soon enough.’
‘Aye, but until that happens, I will be headed for a throat slitting.’
‘Then give Strachan back whatever you stole from him, and let bygones be bygones. Livestock and coin are easily replaced.’
His father’s eyes slid away. ‘Ah, but there’s the rub. It’s not cattle or coin. It’s his sister.’
‘No. Tell me you didn’t.’
‘I did, and she is in the hole. Go and see for yourself.’