Chapter Fourteen
“Iron rusts from disuse; water loses its purity from stagnation…even so does inaction sap the vigor of the mind.”
Laria hurried up the hill to the old stone tower.
Brochs had been built centuries ago by people who needed quick access to defensive structures.
Even now, with the third story acting as a roof, it was still being used for its intended purpose.
It would protect her small clan from the wind, rain, and monsters sent by Iain to find them.
Rap. Rap. Rap. Rap. Rap. Rap. Six raps on the braced door, evenly spaced so they could be counted. No one would knock that way by accident. Laria released her breath when she heard the scrape of the wooden bar on the inside, and the door swung inward.
The glow of lanterns showed Bonnie’s and Errol’s tired faces. She hurried inside, and they secured the door.
“Erskine?” Laria asked.
“Being tended inside,” Bonnie answered, leading them through the outer corridor that encircled the structure to the inner room.
Lantern light filled it, showing the worried faces of her group.
Their chief was down, and they needed her more than ever as his second-in-command.
She’d made the right decision to leave Tuath Tower and the safety Cyrus promised.
The night wind whistled around a hole cut into the ceiling above them. It was designed to let out the smoke from a small fire contained by a circle of rocks in the center of the floor. It was just big enough to warm a pot.
Erskine lay chest-down on a pallet near the fire, where Sophie was tending his back. Even though it had been only one strike, the many tentacles of the scourge had flayed his white skin open in five lacerations.
“Bloody foking Jasper,” Laria murmured and sank to her knees next to him. Her grandmother didn’t even reprimand her foul language. “’Tis bad.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t good,” Sophie said.
Kate knelt on his other side with warm water from the small cauldron. “It would have been so much worse if you hadn’t jumped in.” She met Laria’s gaze. “Thank you.”
“I wish I’d said something before Jasper had raised the lash.”
“And then Cyrus Mackinnon started talking and riling up the women,” Kate said, glancing up at the group watching. “Distracted Iain and Jasper Whitt so I could help Erskine away.”
Was that what he’d been doing? He’d been lying, of course, about her name being Mary and their night together.
He’d been protecting her, too, lying so that Iain would have nothing severe for which to punish her.
Besides, the chickens had been hers. She’d hatched them and raised them until she’d abandoned Tuath Tower to get her grandmother to safety.
Leah was unusually quiet. She came over to Erskine and set a picked wildflower near his face. “You’ll get better,” she whispered in her small voice. “Lady Sophie, Mama, and Laria know how to heal.”
Sophie met Laria’s gaze with clear, serious eyes.
“Bonnie found burdock leaves and chamomile. I’ve washed the wounds and am applying a poultice.
Then I’ll brew some feverfew for him to drink.
That’ll keep the fever away until he can heal.
” She nodded, completely in control of her mind, and mixed some of the hot water in with the herbs she’d bruised with a pestle.
Kate had strips of linen ready to wrap the poultice.
Laria’s grandmother stroked back Erskine’s longish, white hair, brilliant white despite his young age.
“I remember when you were just a little lad with your odd eyes and white hair. The woman who’d taken you in thought you were a wee angel, sent from heaven without wings.
” Her lips pursed. “Marylyn unfortunately didn’t see you that way. ”
A teary sniff made Laria glance up to see Max wrap his sister, Bernice, in a hug. The girl had suffered maternal neglect and ridicule when her back had begun to bulge outward. Luckily, Leah had been born to a mother who loved her despite the red splotch across half her face.
They worked in silence until all the slashes were tended and wrapped.
Bonnie brought over some bannocks and drink, and Laria sat next to her grandmother.
“I think,” Laria said slowly and swallowed, “’tis time we go on progress around the Isle of Skye.
” She looked around the dimly lit room, meeting gaze after gaze.
“We should all visit the other clans on Skye.”
“Visit?” Bonnie asked, obstinance making her voice sound cold. “Or permanently relocate?”
Sophie’s frown intensified. “What do you mean, child? I will not leave Macqueen territory.” She glanced down at Erskine. “I will support him until my last breath.”
Laria met her gaze. Where was the dullness that had pushed Laria to get her grandmother out of the tower and away from Iain?
“We go on progress in the name of peace,” Laria insisted.
“A treaty was signed with Clans MacLeod, MacNicol, Macdonald, and Mackinnon. You will represent Clan Macqueen as the Lady of Tuath, and we will visit first Scorrybreac, where Clan MacNicol lives, then Clan MacLeod as emissaries. If all goes well, we will continue south on Skye all the way to Dun Haakon and the seat of Clan Mackinnon.”
Laria stared right into her grandmother’s eyes, lying to her for the first time. “We need you to help forge peace on Skye so we will be strong against the English.”
Errol, the older blacksmith who’d been scarred viciously by fire, spit on the floor at the word “English.” Everyone else remained silent, waiting for Sophie’s next words. The small fire crackled, and Maxwell crouched before it, adding small chunks of peat that he’d broken up.
Sophie turned her attention back to Erskine’s wounds. “I cannot leave him until he heals.”
Kate reached over to squeeze her hand. “Leah and I will care for him. I know he’d want you to…to go on progress, milady.”
“Ye’ll be promoting peace, milady,” Oscar said. He was leaning against the wall to give his armpits a break from the crutches that made it possible for him to walk.
Sophie met Laria’s gaze. “You will accompany me?”
Laria felt pulled apart once more. Without Erskine able to lead, the group needed her here, but her priority had always been her grandmother.
“I…” Her gaze swept across her people.
“Laria will go with ye.” The words came from Erskine. His eyes had opened, making Kate rush toward him with a bladder of drink. He turned his head so he could meet Laria’s gaze. “Win the hearts of the other clans.”
Laria stared back. Persuading the other powerful clans on Skye to support Erskine as chief of the Macqueens would help them more than her remaining here would. She nodded.
Sophie looked from Erskine to Laria and smiled. “We will need to arrive on horseback. First impressions are important.”
Laria released her breath. “Of course. I will try to find you a horse, as well as mounts for the others.” Perhaps she could free Lancelot from Iain’s stables. She missed her majestic charger with the ticklish muzzle.
“Who will accompany ye?” Oscar asked, looking around.
From the looks on the faces of her friends, not a single one was willing to give up their homeland. “We can figure out the logistics after a good sleep,” Laria said.
They settled around the small fire, eating the remainder of the chickens Bonnie had refused to leave behind in the caves. The light filtering down through the hole in the ceiling was dimming as night fell.
Despite the draft going up through both intact floors and the hole on the third story that now served as a roof, smoke circulated inside the room. But the ceiling was high, giving them breathable space below.
Rap. Rap. Rap. Rap. Rap. Rap.
Laria’s face snapped toward the door. Cyrus. Relief made Laria’s shoulders drop, and she realized she’d been waiting. She rose, keeping her relief hidden. “I told Cyrus the signal.”
“He could have been followed,” Oscar said, balancing on his intact leg.
“He can help us esca—with our progress around Skye.” Laria hurried to the outer door.
Bonnie stalled her with a hand. “Are ye sure? His sister is married to Iain.”
Was she sure? Would Cyrus follow Iain’s orders to keep his sister safe? Would there be a group of Macqueen warriors outside, surrounding the broch, instead of Cyrus?
Trust me. But his kiss and the way he’d held her rough hand had spoken more than his words. Laria nodded. “He will help us.” She still held her breath as she lifted the bar off the door.
…
Cyrus exhaled when he heard the scrape of a brace being removed from the broch’s door.
He’d spent hours circling Staffin Village inside the forest line, jogging off in different directions and then carefully stepping back through his own tracks, sometimes taking to the trees or walking down a creek.
His boots were soaked, and the night had brought an uncomfortable chill with it.
When he’d finally worked his way far enough south along a burn that he hoped he couldn’t be followed, he’d stepped out upon boulders to climb across a hilly peat bog, and then finally onto a solid moor where the remains of an ancient broch had jutted into the night sky.
Laria’s face appeared in the crack of the heavy door, cast in shadow and lantern flame. Her eyes were dark and wary, set into her perfectly aligned pixie face. “’Tis just me,” he said, answering her unasked question.
Her hair was gathered up onto her head in a wildly coiled bun that somehow looked prettier on her than expertly woven braids. The wisps around her face complemented her high cheekbones, which were dotted with freckles. Even living in a palace, Laria would look born of wild places.
She glanced over his shoulder out into the gloaming, which was quickly deepening into night. “I spent two hours doubling back on foot,” he said, “and hiding my tracks by walking a mile in a bloody freezing stream. No one followed me.”
She glanced down at his obviously waterlogged boots. “You’d best come in, then.”