Chapter 7
From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-leggedy beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord deliver us!
—Scottish prayer
Isle of Mull
Scotland, 1515
It was dark when Alysandir and Drust stepped into their small boat and rowed the short distance across the Sound of Iona to Mull, where their brother Colin waited with their horses. The night was inky and black. A furtive moon slid between slow-moving clouds to illuminate everything below, including the boat that navigated a labyrinth of craggy rocks, dim in the moonlight. With a yank of the reins, Colin led the horses closer, anxious to hear if their sister Barbara was safely tucked away in the nunnery.
The boat rocked as Drust stood and steadied himself. The current lapped against the hull as he searched the rocky shore for a sign of his brother and spotted Colin’s fiery hair. “Troth, brother! ’Tis good to see ye.”
“Did ye have trouble finding me?” Colin called back.
“Aye, ’tis as difficult to see ye as the flame of a stick of resinous wood.”
Colin grumbled, and Drust chuckled loudly enough for Colin to hear. It always set Colin’s temper on edge to be teased about his red hair, and teasing his brother was something Drust rarely resisted.
Tonight, Colin ignored his brother’s taunt and quietly stood guard while Alysandir heaved himself over the side of the boat and landed with a gentle splash. The hull scraped against rocks as Drust pulled the boat ashore. Eager horses pawed at the sand, tossing their heads with impatience. Colin extended his hand, and with a toss, threw the reins toward his oldest brother.
Alysandir caught them in one hand and spoke a few soothing words. Gently stroking Gallagher’s neck, he mounted. The moment he was in the saddle, the sturdy hobbler broke into a canter along a sandy stretch of sand, splashing through the shallow water and throwing up clumps of wet sand. As Alysandir turned his mount toward higher ground and broke into a gallop, he fleetingly thought of the Macleans and how old Angus must be raising their clannish ire. That did not bother Alysandir, for he preferred Angus’s anger to his cunning, for an angry man was ever a stupid one.
However, it did rankle to be spending so much time on a gnat like Angus Maclean when more important matters needed to be dealt with. Besides his troubles with the clan elders who wanted to see him married, Alysandir had to deal with Scotland being trapped in the middle of a power struggle between England and France. It was like crossing a vast chasm on a rope bridge burning behind them, while all manner of poisonous vipers waited at the bottom.
Behind him, his brothers quickly mounted and rode after him, accompanied by the muffled sound of horses’ hooves against the boggy soil. “Did all go well with ye?” Colin asked when he slowed his horse to ride next to Drust.
Drust gazed at the leather bag tied to Colin’s saddle and asked, rather good-naturedly, “What have ye there in those bags, Colin?”
Colin shrugged. “I like to be prepared. Did all go well?”
“Aye, Barbara is comfortably settled in with the nuns, cozy as can be, and our uncle said to give ye his blessing.”
Colin nodded. “Our uncle… did ye warn him that there could be trouble with the Macleans if they learn Barbara is in hiding there?”
“He knows, but he is no’ too worrit aboot it. He thinks Angus Maclean is too smart to risk the wrath of the church in Rome just to snatch a prospective bride from the nunnery so he can marry her off to his son. Angus knows our uncle is the abbot and that the church would soon learn of such a rash act.”
“Ye do seem a mite delighted at the prospect,” Colin said.
Drust grinned widely. “Aye, ’tis true enough that it is a source of delight to rankle the old dog by pulling his tail.”
“There never was any love lost between Lachlan Mackinnon and Angus Maclean,” Colin said. “I heard they both had their eye on the same lass at one time, and Angus lost out. There has been bad blood between them ever since.”
Drust replied, “Weel, that may be, but I ken there’s never been any love lost between the Macleans and the Mackinnons since the beginning of time. Bitter as gall and wormwood it is to Angus, knowing the Mackinnons belong to the kindred of St. Columba and that many have been abbots at the monastery he started. ’Twas always as damp as water on the aspirations of ole Angus.”
“The two of ye are overly confident on the eve of strife. Ye should be preparing yer mind for battle and filling yer soul with iron will,” Alysandir said, cutting into their conversation. He remembered when things had been that way between him and his older brother, Hugh, and how it had wounded him to be the one sent to bring Hugh’s body back from where it had fallen at the Battle of Flodden Field.
He remembered, too, how he had not wanted to take the mantle of tribal chief from the shoulders of his dead brother. In the end, Alysandir had assumed a role he had never asked for and never really wanted, and at times like this he envied his younger brothers the freedom of their carefree ways and lighthearted banter, for heavy hung the mantle of responsibility upon his shoulders.
His brothers fell silent and rode on, while Alysandir contemplated how he had been only twelve years old—a peace-loving lad and a bit of a scholar—when his father had sent him to school in France. He recalled how confusing and disorienting he had found being in a foreign country, with Parisian culture so far removed from a Highlander’s life.
But he had been a happy lad, hardworking and resilient, and he had taken to his studies like a duck to water. Soon he had settled in happily enough, making friends, doing well in his studies, and getting into trouble on occasion, never knowing that one day he would call upon all those experiences, trouble included, to lead the Mackinnons as their chief.
His father had wanted him to learn to interpret official documents, both public and private, most of which were couched in Latin—and learn them, he did. In addition to Latin, he also became fluent in English and French. Although Gaelic was spoken in the Highlands, Lowlanders and those of the noble classes usually conversed in Norman French, and most of them also spoke English. Years later, his knowledge of languages did open doors, as his father had said it would.
Alysandir learned to play the lute and to sing, neither of which he enjoyed. He was tutored in literature and writing, even though it was expected that he would always have clerks at his disposal. He excelled at horsemanship and the use and care of arms, as well as being educated in the behavior, skills, and qualities befitting the second son of the Mackinnon chief.
He often wondered if his father had had some sort of premonition that his second son might one day be called upon to lead and guide the Mackinnons, for if he had not had the education afforded him, he would have been ill prepared to lead and would have fallen woefully short of being the kind of leader the ancient tribe deserved. Yet, there were times like today when Alysandir doubted he was good enough, wise enough, and strong enough to be the leader his father and brother had been. So many memories; so many deaths, so much pain. Life goes on.
His face was as cold and imperturbable as his thoughts, which he knew should be directed toward more important matters, like keeping a sharp eye out for signs of trouble. In spite of the moon, the world seemed to have closed in on them, and the wind blew a little bit stronger, while the air grew a wee bit colder. There was definitely something afoot this night and he had a strong sense of foreboding.
He had never wanted more to feel the walls of Caisteal Màrrach closing around him. He longed for his brothers to be safe and out of harm’s way, to know again the warm and comfortable feeling of belonging. Once inside the castle he would feel the heat of a fire drawing the seawater from his boots and hear the sound of Duff’s tail thumping against his chair.
“’Tis a serious face ye be wearing.” Drust said, after riding silently beside Alysandir for several minutes. “Ye have the look of a haunted man.”
“We need to pick up the pace, lads,” Alysandir said. He spurred Gallagher into a fast lope, not bothering to look back to see if his brothers followed. He knew they did.
A faster pace did not outrun the apprehension that had captured and held his thoughts since they left Barbara at the nunnery. He worried for her safety but for his brothers’ more. It would make no sense for Angus Maclean to harm Barbara when his son fancied himself in love with her. Angus would not be so kind toward her brothers.
At daybreak, Colin stood in the stirrups and searched the horizon for a glimpse of Alysandir. Seeing none, he said, “Sometimes I wonder why he wants us to ride with him, for he canna stay be with us verra long without riding off alone.”
“’Tis a part of who he is,” Drust said. “Part of it comes from the role he inherited. Since he became chief, there has been a change in him. It is as if he was touched in some magical way by the same passions that touched our ancestors. So, dinna worrit if ye canna see him. He is close enough that he can see us.”
“So, what are ye trying to tell me, Drust?”
“That we canna criticize that which we dinna understand.”